#but she's there for him and he has faith in that | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

clownprincesshq · 2 days ago

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double lives, double dates pt2

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: smut again sorry guys im a fiend, death, hurt no comfort, canon event </3, mark is a supportive boyfriend, mentions of sex

w/c: 8.7k

a/n: canon event time</3 also, thank you for your lovely asks and comments! they truly mean the world!

You wind yourself at the kitchen table, seated across from Mark, caught between May’s judgmental toast-serving and Ben’s everlasting dad look. It's warm. It smells like coffee and eggs and the crisp citrus of freshly cut fruit. It’s nice.

And you're losing your mind.

Your hand is still tingling from when it stuck to your nightstand earlier. You had to shrug it off like you were battling off a ghost. Now you’re here, attempting to eat breakfast with your boyfriend like a regular person, but your body buzzes like it’s got additional code written into the marrow.

You reach for the orange juice. Your fingers twitch.

Don’t break the glass. Don’t break the glass. Don’t crack the-

“You gonna drink that,” Ben says unexpectedly, making you flinch so sharply you nearly drop it.

You laugh. “Yup. Uh-huh. That’s the plan. Totally in control of my motor functions, why do you ask.”

Mark raises an eyebrow across from you, but doesn’t say anything.

May lays a plate in front of him. “So. Mark. Since senior year, huh?”

He picks up his fork with a kind of forlorn certainty. “Yeah. It started with her threatening to hit me for talking during biology. It was love at first sight.”

You groan. “Why would you say that out loud.”

“She deserves context,” he adds with a piece of egg. “I deserve recognition for my emotional growth.”

May grins, but it’s the harsh, knowing sort. “You’ve been keeping this from us a while.”

You murmur, “I wasn’t keeping it. It was more of a... long-term rollout plan.”

“Three years,” Ben answers bluntly.

“We’re busy,” you murmur into your toast.

May bends over her cup. “With what, exactly?”

Mark points his fork. “She has like seventeen credits, works part-time, and watches nature documentaries at two a.m. for fun. It’s actually sort of intimidating.”

You flash him a glance. “You’re not supposed to roast me in front of my family.”

“I’m endearing myself to the judges.”

May hums. “So far, he’s succeeding.”

You gulp your juice, too fast, and nearly cough. The flavor smacks your tongue like a blow. You lay the glass down a touch too hard, just a little, and it produces a louder clink than it should.

Mark’s eyes flick to your hand. Just for a second.

You attempt to grin.

He doesn’t press it.

Yet.

Ben, meantime, sits back in his chair, cup in hand. “So. Why the secrecy? You thought we wouldn’t approve?”

“No,” you answer hastily. “It was... I don’t know. It was just ours. And then it kept being ours. And then suddenly it was three years later and we were very much lying by omission.”

Mark shrugs. “Honestly, I was just following her lead. She said wait, I waited. Like... a faithful, loving golden retriever.”

Ben grunts. “Golden retrievers don’t sneak around.”

“Golden retrievers don’t pass AP Calc either,” you add.

Mark points. “Let the record show, I passed.”

“With my notes,” you say.

“With my charisma.”

May cuts in before you can hurl your napkin at him. “Well, it’s out now. And despite the... wait, I’m glad. It’s good to see her happy.”

That makes you silent.

Because you are joyful.

But you’re also something else. Wired. Fragile. Like you’re one hard grasp away from snapping your fork in half.

Mark’s still eyeing you out of the corner of his eye.

You feel his foot poke yours under the table.

You nudge back, just slightly.

“So, Mark,” Ben says nonchalantly. “You treat her like she’s the best thing that ever happened to you?”

Mark doesn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. She is.”

You nearly choke on your fruit.

“Okay,” you respond, half a laugh. “That’s enough sincerity before ten a.m.”

“I’m just saying,” he says with a shrug. “You deserve to know.”

May’s observing you now, her grin a bit gentler. “We always knew you’d keep your heart close to the chest. But I’m happy he’s the one who has it.”

You go silent again.

Mark takes your hand beneath the table. Warm, steady.

He squeezes softly.

You squeeze back.

But your fingers are twitching. Still sensitive. Still too aware. You’re hyper-conscious of every point of touch. Every pulse. Every scrape of chair leg on floor sounds excessively loud. Every fragrance strikes too intensely. You feel like a balloon overfilled and tied shut too tight.

And you’re not sure how much longer you can pretend you’re just weary. Just stressed.

Because something in you has altered.

And Mark doesn’t know.

And your aunt and uncle don’t know.

And sitting here in the kitchen, with sunshine on the table and eggs cooling on the plate, you suddenly realize

You’re not simply lying about your relationship anymore.

You’re lying about you.

The plates are mostly empty now.

Toast crumbs scatter the table like polite wreckage. The coffee’s been refilled twice, the fruit picked through, and May is humming as she rinses the frying pan at the sink. Ben’s halfway through the crossword, pen tapping rhythmically on the counter. Mark’s still across from you, lazily spinning a fork in his fingers.

And you... you're pretending everything’s fine.

You haven't moved much. Not because you're full. Because you’re afraid if you grip your utensils the wrong way, they’ll bend. Or snap. Or worse.

You fidget with your napkin instead. Something soft. Something safe.

And then, like fate’s just waiting for the tension to peak, the news comes on.

May’s small kitchen TV flickers to life in the corner. Background noise, usually. Something calm and distant while breakfast happens. But not today.

Today, the name hits your ears before the anchor even finishes her sentence.

“Invincible was spotted again last night above Midtown, engaging what looked like two rogue Flaxan warriors attempting to break through into Earth’s dimension.”

Your stomach drops.

The screen shows shaky phone footage, Invincible, blue and yellow and blood-streaked, slamming through a Flaxan like a baseball through a windshield. He’s fast. Brutal. And unmistakable.

The camera pans to show wreckage. People running. Civilians yelling.

Mark shifts beside you.

Mark interrupts the stillness, voice low but steady. “People always want someone to blame.”

May peeks over her shoulder. “Blame him? He’s the only reason half this city isn’t a crater.”

“They don’t care,” Mark answers. “It’s easier to fear power than to understand it.”

That lands odd.

You gaze at him.

He’s looking at the blank screen, mouth stiff, without blinking. Like he’s still seeing the conflict happen in real time.

Something in your belly twists.

Ben folds his newspaper. Leans forward. His hands are linked now, fingers intertwined. There’s something serious about his posture like he’s going to utter something he’s been sitting on for years.

He looks between the two of you. His niece. Your boyfriend. Two kids in their early twenties, thinking breakfast is just breakfast.

Then he says it.

That line.

“I’ve always believed one thing.”

His voice is steady. Not loud. But it fills the room like thunder regardless.

“If you’ve got the power to stop something bad from happening, and you don’t...”

He stares directly at you.

“Then it’s your fault when it does.”

You blink.

Your throat tightens. You don’t react.

You can’t.

He lets the words hang. No drama. No fanfare.

Just the truth.

“With great power,” he adds, softer now, “comes great responsibility.”

It smacks you like a blow to the chest.

You don’t breathe for a second.

Because he doesn’t know. He has no idea.

But he’s right.

You feel it in your bones. In your hands. In the way your whole body feels like it’s vibrating just beneath the surface. You don’t know what you’re becoming but you know it’s not nothing.

And suddenly, everything feels heavier. This room. This moment. The weight of what you might be able to do.

And the scary option of deciding not to do it.

You try to talk. “I mean... I’m just a college student. I can barely pass physics. I don’t think I’m competent to stop any catastrophes.”

Ben doesn’t laugh. He merely glances at you.

“You don’t have to be qualified,” he continues. “You just have to care.”

Mark adjusts slightly in his seat.

You sense him observing you. Not in a suspicious way, not yet, but near. Too close. His foot touches yours beneath the table again, grounding you.

But you’re still floating.

Your voice comes out softer than you intend it to. “Sometimes I wonder if power finds the wrong people.”

Ben raises his eyebrow. “You worried about Invincible?”

You hesitate.

Mark tenses, barely discernible.

“No,” you say. “Not really.”

Ben takes a drink of his coffee. “Then what are you worried about?”

You freeze.

Mark’s eyes are still on you. He doesn’t blink.

You swallow. “That... someone could have power and not even know what to do with it. That they might mess it up.”

Ben leans back. “Then they learn. Or they suffer the price for not learning.”

His words drop into your chest like bricks.

Mark eventually speaks, voice faint now. “It’s scary. Having power. Knowing others want something from you, even when they don’t know what you’re dealing with.”

You glance at him aggressively.

He catches your gaze for half a second before glancing away.

The air feels different. Thicker.

May attempts to cut through it, delicate and lovely. “Well. All I know is, if this Invincible kid’s trying his best out there, good for him. Not everyone can say the same.”

You nod absently. You’re hardly hearing her.

You’re watching the flash of a shadow on the wall. A reflection from the TV.

You think of your hands adhering to the faucet. The power in your fingers when you cracked a slice of bread by accident. The way your body understood how to land when you leaped off your house.

You think of the way your heart leaped when you saw Invincible on-screen not because he terrified you.

Because something in you whispered

You could do it too.

But what if you shouldn’t?

What if you’re not ready?

What if you never will be?

Ben’s words come back, circling in your thoughts now

“If you’ve got the power to stop something bad from happening, and you don’t… then it’s your fault when it does.”

You breathe in deep.

And realize...

You can’t sit motionless forever.

Mark squeezes your hand beneath the table as you clear the rest of the plates. “I’ve got class in, like, fifteen minutes,” he whispers. “But I’ll text you?”

You nod. “Of course.”

His eyes linger on yours a bit longer than they should.

You know he’s still thinking about the way you froze during the announcement.

You know he’s suspicious.

But he doesn’t press. He merely kisses your temple and gets his bag from where it’s resting against the wall. “Tell May she makes a killer omelet. And tell Ben I’ll return his newspaper. Probably.”

He gives you one last look before sliding out the front door.

And suddenly it’s just... silent.

Mark leaves for class with one more peek over his shoulder, and you offer him a faint wave like you're not vibrating out of your skin.

As soon as the door closes behind him, your body becomes motionless.

The air shifts.

The kitchen is too light, too heated. The eggs are cold on the plate, and May is humming gently as she rinses dishes, the water spraying in gentle, rhythmic spurts. Ben’s chair creaks as he leans back to finish the crossword, pen pounding on the table. It’s normal. Comfortable.

But you’re not.

You can’t sit still.

Can’t breathe well.

The strain within your chest is increasing, coiled like a spring, and the quiet just makes it worse. You murmur something about needing air, about wanting to clear your thoughts, and they don’t even flinch.

You slip out the back door.

Then you climb.

The side of the house shouldn’t feel this easy but it does. Your hands know where to go. Your feet stick when you don’t expect them to. The gutter moans quietly beneath your weight, but doesn’t shatter.

You crest the edge of the roof and swing a leg over, placing yourself on the angled shingles with your knees tucked under your arms. You sit there for a while, heart still hammering from everything, the morning, the news, Uncle Ben’s remarks.

‘With great power…’

You push your palm to your chest. You swear you can feel it buzzing under your ribs.

You’re not simply terrified.

You’re wired.

Every nerve feels like it’s had coffee and electricity for breakfast.

You peek across the street, apartment complexes, electricity wires, small lanes. And you wonder

Could you do it?

Really?

You stand.

The breeze sweeps your hair back. The street below looks so far away now. You rock on your heels, arms wide for balance, trying not to think about how easy you may fall.

But that’s not what terrifies you.

What terrifies you is that part of you wants to jump.

You flex your fingers and gaze down at your wrists. There’s a subtle, prickling heat just under the skin, like something waiting. You tighten your fists and murmur to yourself

“Okay. No pressure. Just... try not to faceplant into someone’s windshield.”

You aim.

Instinctively.

You don’t know how you know what you’re doing, but you do. You can feel the tightness in your forearm, the way your fingers want to lock into place a specific manner.

You close one eye, stretch your arm toward the chimney of the building across the alley, and

Thwip.

The sound is moist and abrupt, like silk ripping through the air.

A silvery-white thread bursts from your wrist and hits the brick. It sticks. Firm. Clean.

You gasp. “No freaking way.”

You tug. It holds.

Your heart is throbbing in your throat now. Your legs feel like they’re made of static. You glance at the web, then at your hands, then at the plummet to the earth below.

This is ridiculous.

This is risky.

This is exactly the type of thing you’d yell at someone else not to do.

But you were never going to walk away from this, were you?

You back up, breath frozen somewhere between your ribs, gaze focused on the web line stretching across the lane.

“Alright,” you mumble, partly to yourself, half to whatever strange new portion of your body made it happen. “Time to jump off a roof. Totally fine. People do that all the time in... cartoons.”

You take a couple steps ahead. Then a couple more. Then you’re running.

You dash straight toward the edge of the roof.

Your foot strikes the edge and you launch.

The wind rips past you suddenly. For half a second, you’re weightless. Flying.

Then the web draws tight.

Your arm yanks forward. Your body whips with it and suddenly you’re swinging.

Your legs flail. You scream, actually scream. It’s not cool. It’s not elegant. It’s half panic, part ecstasy, and your entire body is moving considerably quicker than your head.

You crash onto a fire escape.

Bounce off.

You clutch the web with both hands, dangling now, thirty feet from the ground and breathless, clinging by a thread of whatever you just produced.

You’re panting. Knees shaking.

But you’re laughing, too.

A high, exuberant, nearly insane laugh.

You’re alive.

You’re still up here.

“Okay!” you yell, voice breaking. “Not dead! Not dead!”

You swing one leg up, grab your foot against the edge of the building, and struggle upward, dragging yourself back onto a lower rooftop. You fall in a heap, gasping for air, arms shaking from the exertion.

You gaze up into the sky, still laughing, still surprised.

And then you look at your wrist again.

The skin there appears flushed, mildly heated, but not damaged. You stretch your fingers, and feel the same strain again like a second heartbeat inside your arm.

It’s you.

This power, it’s not from a machine. Not a serum. Not a weird event that left you shattered and radioactive.

It’s yours.

Part of your body now.

Maybe it always was.

You lie there, chest rising and falling, eyes wide, and murmur to the empty sky above

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?”

The wind doesn’t answer.

But in your thoughts, you hear it again:

“With great power comes great responsibility.”

You swallow hard.

And for the first time since this started... You comprehend what it genuinely means.

The next day, everything is louder.

The clink of the spoon in your cereal bowl. The sound of your pen tapping against your notebook. The hum of the fridge. It’s all sharper, like someone turned the world up a few notches and didn’t tell you.

You slept maybe four hours. Woke up tangled in blankets, your heart racing, flashes of rooftop swings still jolting through your mind like lightning.

You keep replaying the fall, the sound of your own scream, the terrifying thrill of not dying.

You should be resting.

But instead, you’re hunched over the kitchen table, staring at a newspaper like it’s going to explain how to live your life now.

May slides a mug of coffee next to your elbow. You don’t even flinch. She pauses.

“You okay, sweetheart?”

You force a smile. “Yeah. Just...brain fog.”

She presses a hand to your forehead, mock-serious. “You’re not allowed to get sick. We’ve already met our household’s emotional crisis quota for the month.”

You grin weakly. “Copy that.”

She moves away, humming again.

You glance down at the paper.

You weren’t even planning to read it. You just needed something to look at. Something boring. Something human. The comics page. Maybe the crossword. Something that doesn’t ask you to stick to walls or leap off roofs.

Instead, your eyes catch on a bolded headline tucked in the corner of page seven

“$3,000 CASH PRIZE! Local Wrestling Event Seeking Challengers” NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY “Step in the ring and stay in for 3 minutes!” ONE NIGHT ONLY! CASH PRIZE GUARANTEED.

You blink.

Your heart skips.

You reread it.

Then again.

You glance at the prize money. Three thousand dollars. Right there in bold. No fine print. No strings. Just survive for three minutes in a cage with a guy called “The Pulverizer.”

Your first thought is ‘That’s sketchy as hell.’

Your second thought is ‘But I could win.’

And your third thought, the one that settles like warm static under your skin is

‘Mark’s birthday is coming up.’

He hasn’t mentioned it, not really. But you remember. You always remember. He plays it off like birthdays aren’t a big deal, but you know better. He’s not the type to expect gifts. He never asks for anything. But you were there the year Amber forgot completely. The year Nolan didn’t call. You remember the look on his face. He never said anything, but it lingered.

And now there’s this necklace you saw online. Dumb. Simple. Nothing super flashy just a little silver tag with the coordinates of where you first kissed engraved on it.

You’ve never had the money for it.

But you could.

Your hand tightens around the edge of the newspaper.

You think about what your body did yesterday. About the way your bones felt when you jumped. The way the wind tasted when you flew. You think about your hands, your reflexes, your web. The power humming under your skin even now.

Three minutes in a ring?

You could do it blindfolded.

You’re halfway through planning it before you realize.

A hoodie. Loose jeans. Something to cover your face, nothing dramatic. You don’t need attention. You just need the prize. Get in, stay standing, get out.

You tell yourself it’s harmless.

You tell yourself it’s smart.

You tell yourself it’s not a big deal.

But under all of it...

You feel it again.

That need.

That pull.

The part of you that wants to test it. That wants to feel the adrenaline again. That wants to see just how far this goes.

And maybe, just maybe, you want to win.

Not for the necklace.

Not for Mark.

But for you.

You fold the paper slowly, set it aside, and whisper under your breath

“Three minutes. That’s nothing.”

You nearly don’t go.

You almost chicken out when you see the outside of the facility, a converted rec center with damaged signs and a banner duct-taped to the brick wall that proclaims "CAGE NIGHT" in a bold font.

You convince yourself you’ll simply scope it out.

Just watch.

But you brought your hoodie. And your gloves. And the mask you patched the night before out of a tattered beanie and an old red t-shirt.

And the small folded-up flier in your hoodie pocket has “$3,000 CASH” emblazoned in enormous strong letters, circled three times in red ink.

You can’t walk away now.

You head inside.

It’s louder than you thought. The bleachers are packed with rowdy, beer-sloshing males in football jerseys and cheap sunglasses. There’s a cloud in the air that smells like fried onions and old perspiration. The floor creaks under your boots as you check in with a teen at the fold-up table who doesn't even glance up from his phone.

You scrawl your name on the sign-in form.

Stage Name: The Human Spider.

It felt intelligent last night. Sciencey. Personal. A subtle little hint to what you are today.

Now, looking at it on the page, it feels stupid.

You’re escorted to the rear, a tiny hallway that might’ve previously been a supply closet, now full with tense males in tank tops stretching and moaning like they’re prepared for battle. You can hardly hear the announcer above the clamor of the crowd.

You take a breath.

This is for Mark. For his birthday. For the jewelry you couldn’t afford. The one with the small coordinates inscribed into the pendant, the place where you kissed him for the first time after school, right before it poured. He doesn’t even know you remember.

You do.

You remember everything.

You step into the hallway when they call your name.

The lights hit you first. Bright and unpleasant.

The music is booming. The floor sticky. The Pulverizer is already in the ring, throwing air punches and flashing his pecs at a bunch of people in the front row.

The announcer reaches over the ropes and swings a clipboard in the air. “And in this corner, we’ve got a last-minute sign-up... standing at what looks like... five-foot-something? Really? Okay. Give it up for... hmm... The Human Spider?”

You wince.

The crowd laughs.

“Wow,” the announcer says into the mike, dry as sandpaper. “That name sucks. What is this, a National Geographic tribute act?”

The crowd laughs harder.

Your cheeks burn under the mask.

You look down at your hands.

The announcer throws the clipboard behind him and shrugs. “Y’know what? Forget it. Let’s spice it up. Give it up for the one and only... SPIDER-WOMAN!”

The name hits like a cymbal crash.

People cheer.

You freeze.

That’s not what you wrote.

But it resonates around the gym, ringing in your ears, and suddenly it’s not a suggestion, it’s a branding.

You move, approaching the ring.

And the name walks with you.

The Pulverizer is constructed like a fridge and twice as mean-looking. He twists his neck as you climb between the ropes and snaps his knuckles like it’s intended to terrify you.

The ref mutters something about “three minutes or a pin.”

You nod absently.

Your heart is thumping. But it’s not fear.

It’s something different.

That pull in your arms.

That quiet vibration in your center.

You’re ready.

The bell rings.

He comes at you fast, a swinging punch aiming at your jaw.

You duck. Smooth.

He misses by a mile.

You turn, whirl behind him, and without thinking, put your foot into his back.

It’s hardly even a hard kick.

But he flies.

He slams against the ropes. Bounces off. Crashes to the mat like someone dropped a couch.

Silence.

Then, the audience erupts.

The ref appears startled.

The Pulverizer is knocked out.

Not moving.

The bell sounds again.

You won.

Backstage smells like dampness and crushed hopes.

The promoter’s office is merely a folding table with a cash box and a clipboard. He doesn’t glance up when you step in.

You’re still shaking. Not from terror. From energy. From the way your whole body feels like it just woke up for the first time.

“I won,” you say. “Three grand, right?”

The promoter nibbles on a toothpick. Shrugs. “You didn’t last three minutes.”

You blink. “What?”

“You knocked him out in forty-five seconds. That’s not what the fans paid to see.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

He tosses a single hundred-dollar cash onto the table. Doesn’t even glance at you.

“There. Take it or leave it.”

You gaze at it.

It’s not even crisp.

You take it.

You leave.

You’re halfway down the corridor when the yelling starts.

A door slams.

You hear the promoter shouting, someone stole from him. Took the lockbox.

Then you see him.

A guy in a gray hoodie.

Running.

Fast.

Lockbox tucked beneath one arm, eyes wild.

He establishes eye contact with you as he rushes by.

You could stop him.

You know it.

You could pin him to the wall with one hand.

You don’t move.

The promoter stumbles out seconds later, breathless and red-faced. “HEY! YOU-YOU SAW HIM! WHY DIDN’T YOU STOP HIM?!”

You meet his gaze.

And say, “Not my problem.”

Then you stroll out into the night.

The air is chilly against your face. The wind tastes like metal and rain.

You open your palm and gaze at the hundred-dollar bill.

It feels heavier now.

And for the first time since you received your powers…

You feel little.

You’re almost home when the lights appear.

Not the normal cozy porch sort. Not the glimmer of passing headlights. These are brighter, colder, red and blue flashing against the black like alarms shouting into the sky.

You stop at the end of your street.

Crowd forming.

Voices mumbling.

Sirens still booming in the air, despite the patrol vehicles are already parked.

People stand on the street in slippers and bathrobes, arms folded close, heads turned toward the familiar tiny house at the corner. Your home.

And suddenly, you know.

You know.

You run.

You don’t ask. You don’t shout. You just run.

The mob swirls around you as you surge through. Someone grabs your arm,“Hey, kid, you can’t be here-” but you pull free and dart under the tape before anybody stops you.

Your steps slow as you move passed the cruiser.

You saw the car first.

The passenger door is still wide open. Headlights throwing lengthy shadows onto the pavement. The engine is off, but the keys are still in the ignition.

Then you notice the form on the ground.

A body.

Unmoving.

Covered in a white sheet.

But not all the way.

One hand sticks out, familiar and aged, fingers curved just slightly, like they were grasping for something.

You recognize the ring.

Your throat locks.

You walk closer, slowly, like your body’s fighting to refute what your eyes already know.

A police officer tries to stop you. “Miss, please don’t-”

You ignore him.

You don’t utter a thing.

You fall to your knees beside the body and look at the hand like it would move. Like this is all a misunderstanding and any second he’ll wake up and tell you to stop being theatrical.

But he doesn’t move.

And that sheet isn’t raised.

You notice his sneakers. His watch. The corner of his flannel shirt. The same one he was wearing when he made you coffee this morning.

And suddenly it strikes.

Not everything at once.

Not like a scream.

But like water rising in your chest, sluggish, choking.

Your breath hitches. Your shoulders tremble.

Your fingers press to your mouth like they’re trying to hold everything in.

You let out a sound you don’t identify. Guttural. Choked.

Your vision blurs, and suddenly you’re weeping so hard you can’t see. You hunch forward, forehead on your knees, body shaking like it’s trying to break apart.

You don’t know how long you sit like that.

In some time, May is there.

She kneels alongside you, not saying anything, simply drawing you into her arms. Her hands massage your hair, but even she’s shaking. Her breath stutters on your skull.

“He just, he tried to help,” she murmurs. “They said it was a mugging. That he said for them to stop. That he tried to do the right thing and-and then the man just-”

She can’t finish.

You don’t beg her to.

Because you already know.

You see it again in your mind, the man who rushed by you in the corridor.

Gray hoodie. Lockbox clasped to his chest. Eyes wild and terrified.

You stepped aside.

You informed the promoter “Not my problem.”

Now it is.

You stare back to Ben’s corpse. You want to reach for him. You want to take it back.

But you can’t.

He’s gone.

Because of you.

A deep, scorching fire grows in your gut, sadness entwined with something harsher. Anger.

At yourself.

At the man who pulled the gun.

At the version of you who walked away.

You wipe your face.

Stand up slowly, eyes burning, hands clutched firmly at your sides.

You’re not sobbing anymore.

Your jaw is locked. Shoulders squared. Your pulse pounds with purpose.

Because now you know what you’re going to do.

You’re going to find him.

You don’t care what it takes.

This isn’t about becoming a hero.

Not yet.

This is personal.

The world is ringing.

You can’t hear May weeping behind you.

You can’t hear the murmur of the neighbors, the cops attempting to gently take her back into the home, the paramedics speaking to each other.

All you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears and the sound of your feet hitting concrete.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

You run.

Harder than you ever have before.

The wind slashes at your face, and your hoodie flares behind you as you speed down the street with no strategy. No direction. Just purpose. Just rage.

The night is harsh. Cold. The streetlights make everything gold and wrong. And down in your breast, underneath the shock and the sadness, lies something else

Heat.

Boiling.

Growing.

Your fingers twitch. Your knuckles hurt.

You hear the words again.

“If you’ve got the power to stop something bad from happening…”

Your teeth grind together. You don’t finish the statement in your brain. You can’t.

You see his face. The man in the hallway.

Gray hoodie. Lockbox clasped to his chest.

You stepped aside.

And now Ben’s dead.

You scale a building without thinking. One jump. Then another. Your fingertips touch brick and metal and your legs propel you upward like you’re weightless.

You spring onto the rooftop and sprint full-speed across the tarpaper and gravel, leaping between buildings, air burning in your lungs.

Below, you spot him.

The same man. Same hoodie. Moving through side alleys swiftly, scared, peering over his shoulder like the devil is behind him.

He’s right.

You follow.

He slips inside by a side entrance of a nearby warehouse. You land on the roof seconds later, staring down through a dirty skylight.

Dim lights flicker. It’s abandoned. Half-packed containers and piled shelves threw lengthy shadows across the cement floor. Puddles of rain pour from fractures in the ceiling. The walls are coated in graffiti and lost messages.

You creep down the side, quiet, hands adhering to the wall like magnets.

You drop to the floor without a sound.

Then, from deeper in the warehouse, a noise.

A door creaking. A mumbled curse.

You step forward.

Fast.

You grab him toward the back.

He turns barely in time, eyes wild.

Recognition shoots over his face like lightning.

"You-" he starts.

You don’t let him finish.

You move. Fast. You grab him by the jacket and slam him into a support beam with a crack. The sound echoes. Dust falls from the rafters.

"Why did you kill him?" you demand, your voice like gravel.

He struggles. "I didn’t-I didn’t mean to, I just-he surprised, me, dude! I didn’t know!"

"You shot him."

He’s shaking now. "It wasn’t supposed to go that way!"

He swings. A fist to your stomach. It barely connects. You slam him back again, harder. He gasps.

He stumbles free, pushing off the beam, and dashes for the stairway at the far side of the warehouse.

You chase him.

He scrambles up to the catwalk level, high above the floor, past rusted-out rails and an old dangling chain.

You follow.

You reach the top as he struggles along the platform, nearly tripping on a puddle of old rainwater gathered near the edge.

"Don’t come any closer!" he cries, drawing a little blade from his jacket, holding it out like a threat.

You stop.

Your breath is steady. Measured.

He’s panting.

"You don’t get to walk away from this," you say, quietly. “You killed someone. You killed my uncle.”

"It was an accident!"

"So was this.”

You lunge.

He slashes frantically. You dodge. Grab his wrist. Slam it against the railing. The knife falls.

He panics.

Backpedals.

And steps incorrect.

The railing creaks.

Then breaks.

He slips backward, falling into the corroded crack.

You reach out.

You grab him.

Your hand wraps around his wrist, firmly. His body jerks to a standstill, hanging twenty feet above the concrete floor.

He yells.

Your grasp slips slightly, his skin is slippery with perspiration and blood. You tighten.

“I’ve got you,” you gasp, breath shaking.

He glances up.

And you see his face again.

The fear.

The recognition.

"You could’ve stopped me earlier,” he says, voice shaking. “You-you let me go.”

You freeze.

Your stomach lowers.

And in that hesitation

Your fingers lose him.

He slides.

Falls.

You lunge too late.

CRACK.

The sound of his body hitting the hard floor is definitive.

Sickening.

You look.

You lookat the fractured figure below.

The silence.

The quiet.

Your hands quiver.

You back away from the railing. Stumble. Fall to your knees.

He’s dead.

You didn’t mean to murder him.

You wanted justice.

Closure.

Something.

But this?

This feels like neither.

You don’t know how you got there.

You’re perched on a rooftop someplace blocks away, high above the street. The wind rips through your hoodie like razors, and your body hurts from the pursuit, from the fall, from the guilt.

You’re curled into yourself, arms wrapped tight over your knees.

Your mask lays crumpled beside you.

In your palm is the hundred-dollar note the promoter gave you.

The paper’s moist now, smeared, discolored. You unfold it, gaze at the ink spilling onto your hand.

Then you rip it in half.

Then again.

You let the fragments disperse off the side of the building, fluttering down into the lane like dead leaves.

You sit in the dark, your breath short, your face sticky with dried perspiration and tears.

And for the first time since this began, you say it out loud.

"...It was my fault."

And you mean it.

The church is too silent.

Too still.

It’s one of those modest neighborhood chapels that smells like dust and wood polish and something slightly fragrant. Rows of pews border the central aisle. Candles glimmer softly at the altar. The organ is silent, but for the occasional murmur of aged pipes adapting to the heat.

You sit in the front row, hands folded in your lap, eyes distracted.

You can’t recall how you got here.

You recall the night. The fall. The sound. The way your hand slid.

But this?

This is fuzzy. It everything moved too fast. The coroner. The papers. The casket. The outfit you didn’t know still fit.

Ben is sleeping just a few feet away, locked within a pinewood box you had to help May pick out.

Because she couldn’t do it alone.

And neither could you.

You’ve scarcely uttered a word since that night.

The silence is easy.

May hasn’t asked where you were. What happened. She’s mourning, buried so deep in grief that she rarely eats, barely looks up. She clutches your hand when people speak to her, but never too firmly. Like she’s frightened of breaking you too.

Your eyes wander toward her now.

She’s seated next you, clothed in gray, slimmer somehow. Her face is pale, but her jaw is firm, composed in the manner only someone who’s gone through this before could manage.

She hasn’t cried today.

You have.

Not loudly.

Not noticeably.

But your hands won’t stop shaking.

You’ve had to sit on them the whole time simply to keep motionless.

The service goes on in a flurry of eulogies and silent songs. Someone reads a chapter from Psalms. Another neighbor adds something about Ben constantly volunteering to trim their grass, even in the heat. You hear the words, excellent man, amazing, kind, always had a tale to tell, and they all land like stones in your chest.

Because it’s all true.

And he’s gone.

Because of you.

Your eyes hurt again.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Not now.

You can’t weep again. Not here.

Not with everyone watching.

Not with him watching.

Because somewhere between the commencement of the ceremony and now, Mark Grayson sneaked into the back row.

You spotted him as you turned slightly, head down, arms wrapped tight across his chest, clad in black.

You haven’t seen him since the day before it all happened. Since the match. Since before.

You didn’t text him. You didn’t explain.

And still… he came.

Your stomach knots.

He captures your sight briefly.

Nods once.

You glance away.

The service concludes.

People rise in silent clumps. They converse in low tones. Some leave flowers at the coffin. Some embrace May. One woman, a friend of Ben’s from down the block, lays a hand on your shoulder gently.

You attempt to smile.

It doesn’t reach your eyes.

Eventually the church empties, sluggish as a tide pushing back. Only a few individuals remain now. May is chatting gently to the preacher.

And you’re still sitting in the same location, unable to move.

Then there’s a gentle shuffle of shoes approaching the pew behind you.

You glance up.

It’s Mark.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

He just sits down next you.

His suit’s a tad too small in the shoulders. His tie’s crooked. His hair’s still wet, probably raced here straight from class or a shift.

But he looks at you like he sees you.

Really sees you.

“I didn’t know if I should come,” he replies gently.

You shake your head. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Your throat tightens.

He stares down at your hands, still curled tight in your lap.

Then at your face.

“I’m sorry,” he says. And he means it. All of it.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

He’s quiet for a minute. Then, a bit softer,“You okay?”

You nearly laugh.

It comes out strangled.

“Not really,” you say. “But thanks for asking.”

Another beat of quiet.

“He talked about you.”

Mark’s brow furrows. “Ben?”

“Yeah,” you mumble. “He liked you.”

Mark delivers a sorrowful smile. “I liked him too.”

You nod.

And suddenly, as if all at once, it breaks.

Your shoulders tremble. Your face twists. You cover your lips with your palm, but the sound still escapes, a breathless sob, piercing and abrupt and dreadful.

Mark moves without thinking.

He pulls you in.

His arms wrap around you like a shield, and you bury your face into his shoulder, shivering, breathing, trying to calm yourself, trying not to make a spectacle, but failing.

“I’m sorry,” you choke. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t,” he urges, his voice low in your ear. “Don’t do that to yourself.”

“I let him die.”

Mark stiffens slightly but doesn’t let go.

You didn’t intend to say that.

Not like that.

Not out loud.

You close your eyes.

Mark doesn't ask what you mean.

He just holds you closer.

You don’t deserve it.

But you’re thankful regardless.

The sun is low by the time you walk home.

You’re alone.

Mark offered to walk you, but you shook your head.

You needed the room.

You pass stores with their lights out. Apartment windows shining soft yellow. An aging couple strolling their dog. A group of teens giggling on someone’s porch.

Life carries on.

Even when yours doesn’t.

Even when something in you is gone.

You approach the corner where Ben was shot.

There’s chalk on the ground now. Someone sketched a heart. Wrote his name. Left a flower in a glass jar.

You squat beside it. Touch the chalk dust.

And then you do the one thing you haven’t done in days.

You whisper

“I’m sorry.”

The breeze blows gently.

No reply.

But something moves in your chest.

Not forgiveness.

Not peace.

Just… resolve.

Your room. Your silence. The beginning of anything fresh.

The home creaks in the calm.

May’s already sleeping, or at least pretending to be. You passed her room on the way up the stairs and noticed the gentle bulb glow beneath the door, the shadow of her sitting in the chair by the window. She doesn’t cry when she thinks you can hear.

You don’t weep either.

Not anymore.

There’s nothing left in you to spill.

You sit on your bed, legs crossed, looking at the closed closet door. Your funeral garments are balled in the hamper. The sleeves of Ben’s flannel droop off the side of your work chair. The one he used to wear when he prepared breakfast, even in summer. The one he was wearing when-

You squeeze your palms into your eyes.

Stop.

Focus.

You take a deep breath. Let it out gently.

Then you get up.

Open the closet.

Dig past the old pants, the half-broken Halloween costume from two years ago, the box of notebooks, till your palm brushes the little duffel bag you carried home two nights ago.

The one with your improvised wrestling costume still inside.

You pull it out and unzip it carefully.

The hoodie. The gloves. The mask. It smells like perspiration and dust and remorse.

You drop it on your bed.

And then, you stroll over to your workstation.

Pull open every drawer.

Scissors. Safety pins. Sewing kit. A set of iron-on patches you never used. A red turtleneck. Your old jogging sneakers. Fabric leftovers from May’s quilting bag. An old gymnastics leotard you outgrew but never threw away.

You put it all out in rows like evidence at a murder scene.

Then you sit.

And you begin.

The scissors aren’t sharp enough.

You cut nonetheless.

Your fingers hurt from keeping the cloth taut, but you keep going. The leotard becomes your foundation layer, red, form-fitting, functional. The turtleneck sleeves get sewed on with weak stitching. You strengthen the seams where you can.

You pull a sweatshirt sleeve inside out and start tracing the spider sign by hand.

It doesn’t come out perfect.

But you don’t care.

You sew it on.

You cut the red patches into jagged cuffs and stitch them on your forearms. They’re symbolic. They’re intended to be. They’re for Ben.

When you slide the mask over your face, a new one, red with black stitching around the eyes, you gaze into the mirror for a long time.

You don’t look like yourself.

Not really.

Your eyes are the only thing still visible, and even they feel like someone else’s.

You grab for the hoodie again, this time, not to wear it.

You put it over your lap. Fingers smooth the cloth carefully. Gently.

Ben gave you this sweatshirt years ago.

You were thirteen, soaking from a deluge, shivering in the car after going home from school in the rain. He didn’t even say anything. Just took it off and put it over you.

You never gave it back.

Now you cut a portion of it away, cautious, steady, and fold it into a patch.

You stitch it inside the wrist of your glove.

Close to your pulse.

You want it to be the last thing you touch every time you put it on.

It’s nearly 3 a.m. when you finally finish.

The outfit is rough. A patchwork of reclaimed cloth and irregular stitching. The mask moves slightly to one side. The spider on your chest is asymmetrical.

But it’s yours.

It’s not about cameras or fame.

It’s not for glory or fighting in rings.

It’s not even for revenge anymore.

It’s a promise.

You settle back in your work chair, still wearing it. The metropolis hums outside your window. You may hear the occasional honk, a dog barking someplace far off.

You flex your fingers within your gloves.

And murmur, “I’m ready.”

But you’re not.

Not really.

Not yet.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

Ben is standing in the kitchen in his flannel, flipping pancakes like he’s on a culinary show. The radio’s on. Something aged and comforting. You’re sitting at the counter, arms folded on the tile, yawning into your sleeve.

“You ever think about what you wanna be?” he asks, unprompted.

You raise an eyebrow. “In life?”

“No,” he smirks. “In a dream.”

You snort. “I don’t know. Someone who doesn’t set the smoke alarm off attempting to microwave rice.”

He smiles, pours more batter into the pan.

“I think you could be something really special,” he continues, not looking at you.

You blink. “Because I make good rice?”

“Because you care,” he adds. “You act tough. You’re funny. You’re clever. But deep down? You care. Even when you don’t want to.”

You gaze at him.

He flips a pancake with impeccable timing.

“I just hope,” he says, “that when it counts, when it really, really counts, you remember to use that. Whatever you do, wherever you end up... I just hope you choose to do the right thing.”

You roll your eyes. “Great, thanks, Yoda.”

He grins. “Hey, I’m older than Yoda.”

You toss a napkin at him.

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

You stand at your window now, the complete outfit clinging tight to your frame. The fabric tugs slightly at your elbows. The mask is down, yet your fingers tremble at your sides.

You open the window carefully.

The wind rushes in. Cold. Bracing.

You step onto the fire escape.

The city stretches out before you in a sparkling grid of movement and commotion.

You squat low.

Close your eyes.

Feel it.

That tug in your center.

The one that knows what you are today.

The one that instructs you to leap.

Ben isn’t here to witness this.

But you are.

And it means you have to try.

You rocket forth into the night.

The web fires before your brain fully instructs it to.

Thwip.

You swing.

Not perfectly.

You almost lose your grasp.

But you land hard on the next building over, gasping, heart pumping.

And then you laugh, breathless and half-crazy.

Because you’re alive.

Because he isn’t.

Because this is the only thing that makes sense now.

You glance out at the skyline.

You put the mask over your face.

And say it, quiet, not to the world.

To him.

“I promise, Ben.”

You leap again.

This time, you don’t fall.

The wind stings your eyes.

Your second swing is smoother than your first. Your third is almost graceful. You’re still getting the hang of it, how much pressure to use, how far to leap, how to twist your body midair so the landing doesn’t jar your knees but you’re improving fast.

Your body knows what it’s doing even when your brain doesn’t.

You land on a rooftop with a low thud, breathing hard, heart thudding against your ribs. The city stretches around you like a maze of light and steel. Cars crawl below. Horns echo. Steam rises from vents like phantom trails.

You’re wearing the suit. Your suit.

And you’re out here.

Doing something.

Finally.

The first hour is quiet. You perch on rooftops. Watch alleys. Follow sirens from a distance and stop short when you realize the cops have it handled.

You help a guy pick up a box of dropped produce. He thanks you like you’re a cosplayer.

It’s not glamorous.

But it feels right.

Then you hear it, a scream.

From somewhere below.

You don’t wait.

You drop from the roof and fire a web mid-fall. You swing around a corner, flip over a railing, and land in a narrow alley between two apartment buildings. A man’s got someone pinned against the wall, clutching a purse, shouting. The woman is struggling, kicking, trying to twist away.

Your feet hit the pavement hard.

“Hey,” you bark, voice lower, more serious than you expect. “Back off.”

The man turns.

Scoffs.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters. “Another costumed freak? What is this, comic con?”

You shoot a web.

It hits the purse and yanks it from his hand, sticking it to the opposite wall.

He startles. Turns back to you.

“I’m not in the mood,” you say.

He lunges.

You dodge easily.

It’s instinct now.

You sweep his legs with a fluid motion and drop him hard onto the pavement. He groans, tries to rise. You web his hands to the ground.

The woman runs, clutching the purse once it peels loose.

You wave faintly.

Then crouch beside the man, inspecting your own handiwork.

“Okay,” you mumble. “That went better than expected.”

Then, crash.

Something loud above you. A blur of motion.

You spring back just as a figure drops from the sky.

And lands.

Hard.

In front of you.

You stumble into a crouch, webbing ready in your wrist.

Then stop.

Because you recognize him.

Yellow and blue suit.

Black hair.

Big lenses. Sharp. jawline.

Invincible.

You’ve seen him on the news. You’ve watched him toss tanks, punch asteroids, argue with government mouthpieces and win.

And now he’s standing in front of you, slightly breathless, looking between you and the guy you just webbed to the floor.

“Oh,” he says.

He tilts his head.

“You already got him.”

You blink.

“...Yeah.”

He nods, eyebrows lifting. “Nice.”

You glance at the guy. “Thanks. He tried to do a whole ‘I’m the big bad guy’ thing. Didn’t go great for him.”

Invincible laughs.

It’s annoyingly charming.

“Seriously, though,” he says, crossing his arms. “Not bad. You’re new?”

You shrug. “Depends who’s asking.”

He smirks. “Guy who just flew in to stop a mugging that clearly didn’t need him.”

You huff a laugh. “You’re late, by the way.”

“Fashionably.”

You both stare at each other a second too long.

You fold your arms. “So, do you always land like that? Or was that just to show off?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What, the superhero pose?”

“It was very dramatic. Big ‘I’m the main character’ energy.”

“I am the main character,” he deadpans.

You roll your eyes under the mask. “Wow. Humble too.”

Another beat.

He runs a hand through his hair. It flops back exactly how it was before. Like gravity loves him too much to interfere.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” he says.

“That’s kind of the point,” you reply.

He smiles. “Mysterious. I dig it.”

You pretend your stomach doesn’t flip.

He takes a breath, suddenly softer. Looks past you at the alley wall. Then up at the stars, like he’s thinking too hard.

“Honestly, I just needed to get out,” he murmurs.

You tilt your head.

“Rough day?”

He nods. Then shrugs. “Yeah. My girlfriend’s going through something. Heavy stuff. I think I made it worse. So I figured I’d... you know.”

“Fly halfway across the city and interrupt someone else’s win?”

He chuckles again. “Pretty much.”

You smile faintly, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.

Girlfriend.

You should’ve guessed. Guys like him? They’re always taken.

Still, something about how he says it, soft, a little sad, makes your stomach twist differently.

You step closer to the edge of the alley and look out at the city.

“Sometimes getting out doesn’t help,” you say.

“Yeah,” he replies. “But it’s all I could think to do.”

He glances back at you, expression unreadable.

“I’m trying,” he adds. “She’s important to me. I just... don’t always know how to help.”

You nod.

You know that feeling too well.

“Maybe she doesn’t need you to fix anything,” you say. “Maybe she just needs you to stay.”

He looks at you, really looks.

Like he’s trying to place something he doesn’t quite recognize.

You don’t let him.

You fire a web and swing up to the fire escape, crouching on the railing.

“Anyway,” you call down, “nice meeting you, Invincible.”

He blinks.

“Wait, what do I call you?”

You pause.

Think for a second.

Then smile behind the mask.

“Spider-Woman.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

current taglist: @adeptusxia0 / @moonjellyfishie / @ladynoirx321 / @moraxussy / @saturnalya / @the-good-kooshe / @atomspidyr

not on here but want to be? just let me know! i don’t bite :)

#invincible #invincible x reader #invincible fanfic #invincible season 3 #invincible angst #invincible x you #mark grayson x reader #invincible smut #reader insert #x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson smut #mark grayson

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vortexonsaturn · 1 day ago

Text

House is an atheist. We know this. He tells us often, with bitterness and certainty. He rejects the idea of God, of souls, of cosmic meaning. He dissects faith like he dissects symptoms: a fragile delusion, beautiful maybe, but ultimately dangerous. For House, belief is the enemy of truth. Religion is a sedative for the desperate. He doesn’t believe in miracles—he performs them under fluorescent lights, scalpels, and sarcastic monologues.

And yet, the entire show is draped in religious imagery.

The irony is deliberate. The tension is constant. House, M.D. is not a show about religion, but it is deeply religious in structure and tone. It’s a modern-day gospel about suffering, sacrifice, and the endless question of whether redemption is possible for people who are fundamentally broken.

And at the heart of that contradiction—at the center of House’s reluctant, silent religion—is Wilson.

Wilson, the oncologist. The caregiver. The forgiver. The one person who doesn’t try to fix House, just stays. In House’s world of godless suffering and brutal honesty, Wilson becomes the impossible constant. A living parable. A symbol of grace. He is not just House’s friend—he is House’s church. The only place he returns to. The only place he trusts.

Despite everything he says, House believes in Wilson the way people believe in God—not in certainty, but in need. In faith. When everything else fails (medicine, logic, self-destruction) it’s Wilson’s presence that remains. Not because he proves anything, but because he chooses to stay.

Wilson is where House goes when nothing else makes sense.

And this is where Amber enters—because Amber is crucial to understanding the show’s theology.

Amber isn’t just Wilson’s girlfriend or a romantic foil. She’s a vessel. A sacrifice. A holy symbol burned into the center of House and Wilson’s dynamic. She represents the cost of belief. And her death is House’s Fall.

Amber is cast in religious imagery from the start—sharp and shining, dressed in clean lines, commanding presence. She’s the only woman who matches House in intellect, in stubbornness, in biting wit. But while House uses those qualities to alienate, Amber uses them to love. To claim. She chooses Wilson with a kind of divine certainty, and House both resents and envies it.

And then she dies—because House called her.

Because House, in a drug-fueled haze, reached out for Wilson and accidentally destroyed the one person Wilson loved most.

Amber becomes a martyr. She dies for House’s sin. The sin of needing Wilson, of being selfish, of reaching out without understanding the cost. Her death is sacrificial. She absorbs the consequences of House’s weakness. And it shatters Wilson’s faith. In House. In meaning. In everything.

But here’s the terrifying, beautiful part: even then, Wilson comes back.

Not immediately. Not easily. But he returns. He forgives. He chooses House again, knowing the damage he can cause.

And isn’t that what religion is, at its most painful?

The choice to return.

The choice to love something that hurts you.

The choice to find meaning, even in suffering.

From that point on, House is haunted—literally and metaphorically. Amber appears to him as a ghost. A judge. A reminder. Her presence during his Vicodin-fueled breakdowns is a vision, not unlike biblical visitations: accusatory, radiant, always asking questions he doesn’t want to answer. She becomes a conscience, a prophet of pain. Not just Wilson’s loss, but House’s guilt made flesh.

And House listens.

Because he believes her.

Because he believes in what she represents: that his actions matter. That pain has consequences. That love, once given, leaves an eternal mark.

That’s the thing. For all his denial, House’s life is shaped by faith—just not in any god he’ll name.

His god is Wilson.

His gospel is logic.

His demons are guilt, pain, and the memory of Amber in that white, frozen bus.

His sacraments are Vicodin.

His confessionals are sarcasm and silence.

His moments of worship are quiet, rare, and often happen when Wilson isn’t looking.

But it’s faith all the same.

When Wilson gets cancer, everything crashes again. This time, House can’t save him. There’s no diagnosis to solve, no miracle to pull from his bag of tricks. He is powerless. Human. And finally he understands the most terrifying truth of all: he can’t live in a world where Wilson doesn’t exist.

So he dies. Or pretends to.

He sets fire to his life. He lets everyone believe he’s gone. He chooses exile, isolation, and total obliteration of self—all so he can spend a few final months beside the man who has always been his moral center, his constant, his quiet divinity.

That’s not just friendship. That’s religion.

A god falls from the sky. A believer lays down his crown. A sinner chooses love over truth. A cynic learns how to pray—not with words, but with presence.

And isn’t that the most blasphemous, beautiful faith of all?

#gregory house #house md #james wilson #amber volakis #religious symbolism #theology in media #amber as martyr #toxic lowkey…#suffering as devotion #found faith #wilson as saint #amber haunting the god damn narrative #house md finale #i am feral and insane and found all my yaps in my notes

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kabsey · 3 days ago

Text

As soon as what is left of the team staggers back to the Lighthouse from Tearstone Island, Taash stalks away from the eluvian with long strides that far outpace anyone who would follow them. Bellara starts to anyway, but Emmrich stops her with a gentle hand on her arm. From the way they move, Taash has suffered no life-threatening injuries, and he has seen the outward ripples of death so many times, the exponentially expanding effect it has on the surrounding environment. He knows that the weight of Taash's compound grief is too heavy, is crushing them too completely for them to find the air to speak.

Instead Emmrich guides Bellara's attention back to Davrin with a look and a nod. She is at the Warden's side in an instant, though despite his limp, she resists the urge to drape his arm over her shoulder. After many close calls, Davrin has impressed on all of them the importance of keeping their distance when his armor is thick with blight, and he is covered after putting himself between the team and Ghilan'nain again and again. Her hands stubbornly still hover near him, as faithful to her friend as Assan herding him forward from his other side.

He manages to reach the infirmary under his own power, and Bellara hurries to fill the tub in the corner with steaming-hot water. She hasn't had time to study its magical properties yet, but it somehow manages to fill and drain in a continuous cycle, washing away blood and blight as easily as dirt and leaves. If it were anyone but Davrin, she would wait just outside, but they are both Dalish and casual nudity is nothing to anyone raised in a clan. When he is out of his armor, blight only stains his face and hair, so she is finally able to take his arm and help him into the tub.

He ducks his head immediately, scrubbing out the filth until the water is clear again. It seems to take every bit of his remaining energy—emotional and physical; when he's done, he simply sits in the water, elbows on his bent knees, head in his hands. Bellara feels the first tears fill her eyes, and she knows they share the same grief and fear—for Harding and Rook, of course, but it's Neve's loss that trembles between them with a thundering heartbeat. At any other time, in any other way, she would be rapturous at the vindication that, despite their insistence to the contrary, her two friends are so much more than friends to each other, but she suspects that Davrin's desperation as he'd pounded against the darkened surface of the eluvian on Tearstone will live in her nightmares for years to come.

She heals his wounds while he gathers himself and then brings him a towel. His only protest when she leads him to one of the bunks is a perfunctory grunt; he's too experienced a warrior to deny himself needed rest. She plans to stay close, but when she hears shouts and the thuds of falling objects from the floor below, she goes to investigate, leaving Assan behind with instructions to find her if Davrin needs anything.

Emmrich has only managed to coax Spite as far as the library, and the spirit is ripping books from the bookshelves amid demands that Emmrich use them to bring Rook back. Manfred hisses with distress as he scurries to and fro collecting the fallen books.

"Spite," Emmrich scolds, "you must allow me to heal Lucanis."

"No!" Spite shouts. "Find! Rook! First!"

"I swear to you that I will do everything in my power to locate Rook, but if Lucanis is unconscious after his head injury, then both of you may be in serious danger."

Spite growls, but his wings retract with an audible snap and he throws himself onto the library's couch.

"Not unconscious," he grumbles. "Doesn't want. To talk. Doesn't want. To think. Doesn't want. To feel."

Emmrich shares a look with Bellara, who is watching the scene unfold from the balcony outside the infirmary. Her cheeks are lined with tears, and at Spite's proclamation, several more follow the tracks of their fellows. She descends the stairs as Emmrich sits beside Spite to heal Lucanis's body. As the injuries mend, he winds a thread into the spell to encourage drowsiness, though in truth, Lucanis's long-standing exhaustion does most of the work. By the time he lets the spell lapse, Spite is curled on the couch fast asleep, mouth open and one arm flung over the side like a child exhausted by a tantrum.

Emmrich winces as he rises to his feet, rolling his stiff neck. Bellara hurries to his side, hand aglow with a healing spell of her own, but he waves her off.

"Merely a few bruises," he assures her. "You?"

"I'm fine," she says. "Well, not fine, but I'm not hurt."

Her gaze darts from Lucanis's sleeping form to the closed doors of the infirmary and Taash's room above before settling back on him. Her face is twisted with despair.

"What are we going to do?" she whispers.

He sets his hands on her shoulders. "Bellara, what did you see when Rook disappeared?"

She blinks her dark eyes up at him, still dazed with loss and the horrors they have witnessed, but then he sees her usual sharpness return, piqued as always by an unanswered question.

"The resonant energies produced by Ghilan'nain's death ripped a tear in the Fade. Rook was pulled through."

"Anything else?"

She catches her lower lip between her teeth, and her eyes wander to the murals that adorn the walls. "For a split second, I thought I saw someone else, and then the tear seemed to distort right before it closed."

"Yes!" Emmrich assures her. "I saw the same. Did the distortion remind you of anything?"

"It looked a bit like the portal that Elgar'nan used to arrive in the Wetlands when we fought the dragon."

Her eyes widen, and she nearly jumps as she turns back to him and latches onto his forearms. "The ritual! The first one, I mean! Solas's ritual! He was sucked into the gods' prison when they were released. It was an exchange!"

"Precisely!" Emmrich declares. "I believe that figure we saw was Solas himself and that he portaled himself away from the tear as soon as he stepped through. Which he was only able to do—"

"Because Rook has taken his place in the gods' prison!" The momentary thrill of solving a puzzle drains from Bellara's face, and she releases her grip on Emmrich to curl her hands around her own neck.

"Rook is in the gods' prison," she repeats in a whisper. Tears fill her eyes again. "How do we get her out?"

Emmrich sighs, and he feels his own weariness and despair in the slump of his shoulders. "I don't know. Not yet. But we at least have a starting point. And we will not rest until Rook and Neve are safely back with us."

Bellara gazes up at him for a moment and then throws her arms around him and buries her face in his chest. He holds her tightly, soaking up the comfort just as desperately.

When she pulls back, she offers him a wan smile. "Thank you," she says in a fervent voice.

"Whatever for?" he asks.

She sniffs, but no more tears fall. "For giving me hope again."

"My dear girl," he says with a fond smile and another squeeze of her shoulders. "Now come. We have work to do."

#i'm usually very careful to keep the pov limited but eh #bellara lutare #emmrich volkarin #davrin #davrin x neve #spite dellamorte #lucanis x rook #rookanis #dragon age: the veilguard

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koiukiy-o · 21 hours ago

Text

orphic; (adj.) mysterious and entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding. ─── 006. the phenomenologist.

-> summary: when you, a final-year student at the grove, get assigned to study under anaxagoras—one of the legendary seven sages—you know things are about to get interesting. but as the weeks go by, the line between correlation and causation starts to blur, and the more time you spend with professor anaxagoras, the more drawn to him you become in ways you never expected. the rules of the academy are clear, and the risks are an unfortunate possibility, but curiosity is a dangerous thing. and maybe, just maybe, some risks are worth taking. after all, isn’t every great discovery just a leap of faith? -> pairing: anaxa x gn!reader. -> tropes: professor x student, slow burn, forbidden romance. -> wc: 4.4k -> warnings: potential hsr spoilers from TB mission: "Light Slips the Gate, Shadow Greets the Throne" (3.1 update). main character is written to be 21+ years of age, at the very least. (anaxa is written to be around 26-27 years of age.) swearing, mature themes, suggestive content.

-> a/n: they exchange emails. i repeat. they exchange. emails!!! potential double update because the next part is 80% finished, hehe <3 i also wrote this chapter when i was on painkillers (and i still man) so if i sound like a DUMBASS in some parts i. it was not on purpose i swear. -> prev. || next. -> orphic; the masterlist.

Lunchtime rush has taken over the cafeteria. You sit tucked into a corner with Kira and Ilias, your tray pushed halfway aside, your drink sweating onto the wood between you.

Kira’s been nursing her tea for the past ten minutes, eyes half-closed, listening more than speaking. Her food sits untouched. Ilias, meanwhile, is attacking his fries like they insulted his ancestors. There’s a kind of intensity to it—surgical, almost reverent.

“Did they change the oil in these?” he mutters. “They taste like shit.”

You glance at him. “Then stop eating them?”

“Don’t tell me how to process pain.”

Kira snorts.

A clatter near the door draws your attention—trays, muffled apologies, the scuffle of shoes against tile. You glance over. Mydei and Phainon stand just inside, scanning the crowded room with the mild disappointment of people who’ve made peace with the fact that they’re not going to find a quiet spot.

There are no empty tables left.

Mydei catches your eye first. His gaze holds yours, half a question in it. Before you can think better of it, you lift your hand slightly in a wave and gesture to the open space on the bench beside you.

“There’s space here,” you say.

Phainon perks up like a dog hearing its leash jingle. He nudges Mydei forward with the edge of his tray, clearly done pretending to be patient.

“You’re sure?” Mydei asks, already sliding toward the end of the bench without waiting for a response.

Kira shifts slightly to make room, offering Mydei a small smile. “You’re not usually out here.”

You glance between them. “You guys know each other?”

“We share a class,” Phainon says, almost too quickly. “Philosophy.”

“Oh,” you say. “That sounds… interesting.”

Kira stifles a laugh, shrugging. “It’s not that bad. Once you get past the dread.”

“We had to spend an entire week arguing whether perception is a primary act or a constructed one,” Mydei adds, glancing up. “Phainon wrote his midterms in poetic verse.”

“He rhymed ‘intentionality’ with ‘banality,’” Kira says.

“And you gave it a B,” he points out.

“She peer-reviewed it,” Mydei says, jerking her chin toward Kira.

You blink. “Wait—students grade each other?”

Kira nods, twirling the packet between her fingers. “Sometimes. It’s part of the methodology. Subjectivity and all that.”

“That sounds fake.”

“No, ontology sounds fake,” Phainon says without missing a beat.

“They sit behind me,” Kira says, “and keep having whispered debates over whether Merleau-Ponty would’ve survived group work.”

“He wouldn’t have,” Phainon says, solemn.

Mydei picks at the corner of his sandwich. “He might’ve thrived.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you don’t mind them talking behind you?”

Kira shrugs. “I correct them when they’re wrong.”

“He finds it sport,” Mydei murmurs, flicking his straw wrapper at Phainon.

“I would die for neither of them,” Kira adds after a moment, “but I would cite them.”

“High praise,” Phainon murmurs, looking genuinely touched.

There’s a beat of quiet, the kind that usually signals someone’s about to break into a joke—except Ilias doesn’t. He’s staring at Kira like she’s hung up the moon, eyes soft, brow faintly furrowed in something like awe.

You glance at him, then back at her. She’s busy poking at the ice in her drink, oblivious.

“Oh my god,” you mutter under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear. “You’re hypnotized.”

“I am not,” he says, way too quickly.

You raise an eyebrow.

“I’m… admiring her academic rigor,” he adds weakly.

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

Ilias groans and hides behind the menu. Kira, still completely unaware, crunches a piece of ice and asks if anyone wants to split dessert.

You're about to say yes, please, when a shadow falls across the table.

A flicker of awareness down your spine. Some instinctive ripple that tenses your shoulders before your mind even catches up.

You feel it before you see him.

Your head turns—too fast, on reflex. Eyes already landing on the figure passing between tables.

Professor Anaxagoras.

Your heart kicks once, too high in your chest. He’s not in his usual long coat. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, collar slightly open, and the book in his arm looks worn at the edges. The woman walking beside him—elegant, composed, and unknown to you—matches his stride like they’ve been walking in step for years.

She moves like a dream you only half-remember—gliding by his side, wrapped in soft earth-toned fabric that shimmers faintly when the light catches it, like morning mist through tree branches. Her voice, low and melodic, curls around her shoulders, spilling down her back in lazy waves, pinned with something that’s shaped suspiciously like gold-tipped antlers, and her scent—something like old paper and wildflowers—lingers long after she’s gone. There’s a stillness to her, a gravity that pulls your attention without ever asking for it. She doesn’t need to raise her voice or call for silence—she could just look up, and the room would fall into reverent hush. And when her mouth moves, you almost forget that she—

Ilias lets out a low whistle under his breath, not loud, but pointed. “Damn.” Kira glares at him.

You don’t respond. Can’t, for a moment.

Anaxagoras walks past without pausing, the conversation between him and the woman low and self-contained. You catch a word or two—nothing sharp, nothing you could hold on to.

“Who was that?” Kira murmurs, eyes still following their backs.

Phainon, who hadn’t seemed particularly alert, straightens faintly. “Cerces,” he says, tone low but certain. “She used to guest lecture. Phenomenology.”

Mydei doesn’t look up. “She was supposed to take a position here last year. Didn’t.”

It starts like a pinprick, something almost too small to name.

You glance toward the table where they’ve just sat—tucked near the back, partially shielded by a wooden column.

She’s speaking, but her tone is too quiet, and Anaxagoras doesn’t look like he’s listening, so much as… enduring.

A slight shifting in your chest, a tensing in your jaw. Your gaze drifts—too often, too long—toward the corner table where Anaxagoras sits with her. Cerces.

Kira murmurs. “Are they… friends?”

“Not unless you count hostility as a form of bonding,” Mydei says without looking up.

“They hate each other?” Ilias asks.

“They disagree on principle,” Mydei replies. “She called his lecture on spatial memory ‘a diluted myth disguised as hypothesis’ once.”

Phainon lifts his head slightly, blinking at the table. “Is that not flirting?”

You give him a look.

Ilias snorts at your reaction.

Phainon shrugs, resting his head on his arms again. “Just saying.”

Anaxagoras isn’t smiling. Cerces never does, apparently.

You glance back over to the corner booth, where Anaxagoras and Cerces are still sitting, barely exchanging words but clearly in some sort of intense standoff. She speaks with measured precision, and Anaxagoras listens—almost too intently.

Like he’s hanging on her every word.

For some reason, you can’t stop looking. You’re not sure why, but something about it bothers you. Anaxagoras, as unreachable as he is, sitting with someone else like that—it doesn’t sit well.

(Why doesn’t it sit well?)

You don’t even notice how your gaze hardens until Ilias speaks up.

“I thought you were the only one he bantered with,” he says suggestively, though there’s a sharp edge to his voice. It’s off-hand, but the tone feels pointed.

You snap your attention back to him, eyes flicking to Ilias, then to Kira, and finally to Mydei, who’s still half-focused on his andwich. It’s not what he says—it’s how it feels, like he’s digging his finger into a gaping wound in your chest.

“What?” you say, the word coming out a little more defensive than you’d like. "What do you mean?"

Ilias raises an eyebrow, eyes gleaming with a bit of mischief, but he looks like he’s holding back a comment. “Oh, nothing. Just that—well, I thought it was kind of your thing with him, y’know?”

Logically, of course, it’s not just you. It never was. Anaxagoras is a professor, and a professional one at that. He interacts with plenty of people. You were never the only one. But why does it bother you so much now? Why does seeing him there with Cerces feel like something you were supposed to have? Hell, you’ve only been his student for a couple weeks.

Then, from behind you, Phainon’s voice breaks the silence, casually chiming in. “You know, you and Anaxagoras would be a good match.”

Your head snaps around to him, eyes wide, caught completely off guard. You try to catch your breath, but your heart suddenly seems to be beating a little too fast. What did he mean by that? The words feel heavy in your chest, but you can’t quite explain why. You shake your head, trying to brush it off, but you can’t stop the small pang of unease that bubbles up.

Mydei, sitting beside Phainon, glances at him sharply, narrowing his eyes, but the clueless guy keeps munching on his food, completely unaware.

Ilias brightens. “That’s what I’ve been saying!”

Kira, meanwhile, shifts in her seat, a thoughtful smirk pulling at the corners of her lips. “I can see it, actually,” she says, leaning toward you and giving you a look that’s half-encouraging, half-teasing. “You two would have that whole academic rivalry thing going on. Very couple energy.”

Her smirk grows as she watches you react. The comment is light, but you can feel the sting of it.

And of course, Ilias adds to it. His grin is too wide, too knowing. “Late-night debates and discussions on the meaning of the universe... sounds like a dream weekend to me.”

Your pulse picks up speed at the thought, and suddenly, you’re on edge, wondering why this is even a thing now. Your mind races with thoughts that you can’t quiet: why is it bothering you? Why is it bothering you this much?

Is it bothering you?

You shift in your seat, trying to keep your face neutral, but the flush creeping up your neck betrays you. “It’s not like that,” you mutter, your words defensive, even to your own ears. You don’t know why you feel so worked up.

Ilias notices the shift in your tone, the subtle defensiveness in your voice. His grin widens, and he leans forward, clearly enjoying the discomfort he’s stirred up.

You’re too aware of the heat rising in your face. “I’m not—” you snap, perhaps a little too sharply. “You’re being illogical. We’re students, he’s a professor. Our professor. And he’s not even my type—”

Ilias, clearly enjoying this, leans back in his seat with a dramatic flourish, one hand raised as if making a grand announcement. “You know,” he says, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, “I think I’ve figured it out.”

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. “Figured what out?”

“You.” He pauses, letting the words hang in the air for just a moment, before leaning in closer, his grin mischievous. “I don’t think it’s Professor Anaxagoras himself. Oh no, no, no. You’ve fallen victim to something far worse.”

You cross your arms, giving him an exasperated look, but choosing to play along. “And that is?”

“You’ve fallen for his mind,” Ilias says, lowering his voice as if he’s revealing some deep, untold secret. “That black hole of academia. The more you resist, the more it pulls you in. You, my friend, are powerless against the seductive pull of his— of his lectures!” He pauses for dramatic effect, letting the silence linger. “It’s inevitable. You’re already caught in his gravitational field.”

You roll your eyes, trying to keep a straight face, but it’s hard when he looks so pleased with himself. “Ilias, you really need to stop watching sci-fi movies. You’re starting to sound like—”

He ignores you, continuing on in full dramatic flair. “I’m telling you, it’s like you’re destined for this. Like some tragic hero—fated to fall for the untouchable professor.”

You squint at him. “Ilias—”

“Star-crossed lovers, of course that’s what you are.” He raises his hand dramatically, as if making a proclamation. “The one who must suffer in silence, tortured by their own growing attraction while the object of their affection remains completely oblivious!”

You stare at him, half-annoyed, half-amused. “Okay, Romeo, calm down. I’m not falling for anyone, especially not Anaxagoras. He’s our professor.”

“Oh, please,” Ilias scoffs, flipping his fries around on his plate. “That’s the classic denial phase. It’s always like this. First, it’s ‘He’s a professor, this isn’t real,’ and then it’s ‘Oh no, I’m just interested in his intellectual prowess.’ And the next thing you know, you’re writing him anonymous love ;letters about the meaning of life.”

You choke on your drink. “What?!”

Ilias leans back smugly, clearly relishing your reaction. “That’s the part I’m really looking forward to,” he says, completely unbothered by the chaos he’s creating. “The dramatic confessions of forbidden love. You’ll be at the front of the lecture hall, staring at him with those eyes—the ones you don’t even realize you’re doing—until one day, you slip and—bam!—an accidental ‘—Because I love you!’ in the middle of a class discussion.”

You nearly spit your drink out at the absurdity of it all. “Oh my God, Ilias, shut up. That is not—”

“Oh, it will happen,” he says confidently, nodding like he’s just cracked the code of your life. “I can see it now. ‘Professor Anaxagoras, I can’t live without your...philosophical insights...’"

Your face burns even more now, and you throw a napkin at him. “You are insufferable.”

Ilias catches it mid-air and theatrically wipes his brow, pretending to be exhausted by the sheer drama of his own predictions. “Oh, I know. But it’s all part of my genius,” he says smugly. “You’ll thank me when you end up in a tangled, academic love triangle involving forgotten artifacts and ancient texts.”

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile. “Not gonna happen.”

“You say that now,” he says with a smirk. “But I’ll be here when it all goes down. You’ll come crawling to me for advice on how to handle the tension.”

You eyes automatically glance over at the table where Anaxagoras and Cerces are still sitting, and without meaning to, your stomach tightens just a little.

Ilias notices the shift in your expression immediately, his grin widening again. “Oh! What’s this? A little moment of clarity? I can feel it! Your heart’s racing, isn’t it?”

“No,” you mutter, looking away quickly, but the playful glint in his eyes makes you want to strangle him.

“You can’t hide it forever, my friend,” he says, tapping his finger against the table. “The romance is coming. The fated love between the professor and the student, like something out of a tragic novel. And when it happens? Oh, I’ll be the first to say ‘I told you so.’”

Kira, who’s been quietly listening to the whole exchange, smiles at Ilias in that quiet, amused way she does. For a moment, her eyes are soft, entranced by his antics.

Ilias doesn’t notice, of course. He’s too busy reveling in the thought of his own brilliance. “And when you’re finally ready to confess, I’ll be there. Right behind you, cheering you on. I’ll be your emotional support coach. Don’t worry.”

You groan, slumping forward. “Please stop.”

“Fine, fine.” Ilias leans back, clearly not done but pretending to be. “But you know the truth, deep down.” He lowers his voice to a whisper again. “You’re already halfway there. And when the sparks fly... don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You fight to keep the smile off your face, but it’s impossible. “You’re unbelievable.”

Phainon, who’s been slumped halfway over his tray like a cat napping in a sunbeam, lifts his head at last, amused. He says lazily, “Ilias managed to build an entire three-act tragedy in the time it took me to finish my sandwich. I’m surprised.”

“Don’t encourage him,” you say flatly.

Phainon ignores you. “So what’s the title? Ode to a Lecture Hall Affair? Or A Treatise on Yearning, Featuring Poor Life Choices?”

“I like that second one,” Mydei says, without looking up. “Could be a bestseller if it comes with footnotes.”

Ilias snaps his fingers at both of them. “Finally. Some cultured taste.”

“You’re literally projecting an academic romance onto the person least likely to pursue such a thing.” Mydei deadpans, still not looking up.

“That’s how all the best ones start,” Ilias says with a wink. “Tragic self-denial. Emotional repression. That’s the good stuff. You think I want this story to be healthy?”

Phainon tilts his head at you, tone suddenly a little too calm. “So. Do you like Naxie?”

You nearly choke. “What?! No— …N- Naxie?”

“Mm,” Phainon hums, as if making a mental note, completely ignoring the question in your tone. “That sounded like a lie.”

You sit up straighter, voice too quick. “It’s not a lie. I don’t have feelings for him.”

Ilias finally looks up with a beaming smile. “You only get that loud when you're trying to convince someone, and in this case, it is yourself!”

“I am not loud,” you snap. “And I am not trying to convince myself of anything. There is nothing to convince myself of.”

“You’re so flustered right now it’s almost poetic,” Ilias says, grinning ear to ear. “Like watching tower of logic collapse in real time. It’s beautiful.”

Mydei hums thoughtfully. “I wonder what Anaxagoras would say if he heard this.”

You freeze, throwing your head back to look at his table.

Kira bites back a laugh. Ilias gasps dramatically.

“Oh please,” he says, clutching his chest like he’s just been shot. “If he heard this? He’d probably just blink in ancient Greek and then spend fifteen minutes dissecting the philosophical implications of desire as a failed mode of cognition.”

Phainon wheezes, practically howls at that, “And- and he’d do the thing,” he adds, his voice breathless, “Where he raises an eyebrow and smirks at you and then pauses for exactly four seconds.”

Kira giggles quietly. Ilias points like he’s struck gold, practically screams— “Exactly! The pause! The man weaponizes silence like it’s part of the syllabus.”

As if on cue, from the other side of the room, Anaxagoras shifts slightly in his seat—one subtle glance cast toward your table, recognizing the voice. Not long. Just a flicker of movement, but it’s enough. His eyes land on Ilias—still half-mid-monologue—then slide to you.

He nods in acknowledgement.

You nod back.

He smirks.

And looks away.

Cerces doesn’t glance over. She sits serene and unaffected, like her presence was never meant to interact with the world around her.

You’re too aware of the sharp prickle under your skin. You feel wrecked, utterly wrecked, even after he looks away.

Ilias notices. Of course he does.

Your eyes widen at his face, and you contemplate dragging his drama-ridden soul into the nearest chalk circle and trapping him there with nothing but an introductory ethics textbook and a looping recording of Anaxagoras’ driest lecture on epistemological drift.

Or maybe you'd just pin him to a whiteboard and force him to define “romantic projection” in front of the class while Kira holds up increasingly incriminating flashcards titled Things You’ve Said Out Loud.

“You’re not even subtle,” you mutter, eyeing him like you’re mentally selecting a power drill.

Ilias grins, unbothered. “Subtlety is for people who don’t have prophetic insight.”

“You’re a menace.”

“I’m a visionary,” he corrects, reaching for another fry with the smugness of someone who just cast a match into a very flammable bush.

You make a low noise, possibly a groan, possibly the sound of his spirit exiting his body. “If you keep talking,” you say without lifting your head, “I will hex your shoes to squeak every third step.”

“I’ll do it,” Mydei says.

Ilias throws his hands up. “You’re all just mad because I’m right.”

You glare at him. “I’m mad because you’re loud.”

Ilias points at you like he’s presenting a final thesis. “And yet—flushed cheeks. Shifty glances. Heightened vocal pitch.” He sets his hands down with finality, attitude dripping in his gaze. “The data is there. I’m merely analyzing it.”

Kira sips from her drink with the serene expression of someone watching a documentary on slow-burning disasters. “I think you should be very afraid,” she tells him lightly, smiling. “I think they’re planning your downfall.”

“Please,” Ilias says, waving a hand. “If they wanted me gone, I’d already be framed for something weirdly specific.” He raises his voice for the rest of the table, almost announcing, “Don’t be surprised if I wake up one morning and am suddenly framed for impersonating a tenured professor in order to smuggle a haunted relic into the archives!”

Before Ilias can spiral into another dramatic reenactment of his imaginary academic crimes, a quiet hush rolls over the table.

You look up.

Professor Anaxagoras.

He stands just behind Ilias, hands folded neatly behind his back, a ghost of amusement curling at the corner of his mouth like he’d been standing there long enough to hear something he shouldn’t have. His gaze flicks briefly over the group, then settles on you—warm, sharp, and startlingly direct.

“I must admit,” he says lightly, voice like dry parchment curling in a fireplace, “that’s disturbingly plausible.”

Kira makes a sound—half choke, half squeak—and Ilias nearly drops his drink. Mydei straightens just slightly. Phainon blinks up at Anaxagoras like he’s not entirely convinced he’s real.

You forget how to breathe.

Anaxagoras raises an eyebrow at you in mild inquiry. “When are you turning in your application?”

Your confusion must show, because his brow lifts just a fraction higher, something unreadable flickering in his expression. He waits.

You blink. “I’m not applying. Professor.”

It’s quiet for a beat too long.

His eyes widen—only slightly, but enough to notice. Then something more subtle shifts in his expression, as if the air around him has rearranged itself. He tilts his head, his gaze narrowing just a fraction. Then—unexpectedly—he smiles.

Not the cold, amused smile he offers to half-baked arguments in lecture, or the small polite one he reserves for administrative nonsense.

This one feels different. Quiet. Introspective. Like you’ve said something that has genuinely surprised him.

“Would you excuse us for a moment?” he says, addressing the table but looking only at you. “A word.”

Kira glances at you, and Ilias makes a dramatic slicing motion across his throat like he’s already composing your eulogy. Phainon props his chin on his hands, watching with all the intensity of a wildlife observer about to witness a rare predator interaction.

Your heart kicks up hard, then stumbles.

You stand slowly.

“Sure,” you say, not sure at all.

Anaxagoras steps aside, letting you pass, his presence folding into the space beside you with such unassuming weight that the rest of the world suddenly feels quiet.

Behind you, Ilias mutters, “He pulled the ‘a word’ move! I’m going to eat this fry solemnly, in case it’s the last one I ever share with them.”

Kira shushes him with a swat.

You walk just a few paces before he speaks, voice low and deliberate.

“You’re not applying,” he repeats. Not a question. A repetition for clarity. For the sake of confirming it aloud.

“No,” you say softly. “I’m not. I was never going to.”

That gets his attention. His eyes cut back to you, something almost imperceptibly shifting in his posture. “No?”

“Studies on consciousness isn’t my field of study,” you say, level. “And I’m not interested in pretending it is for the sake of a symposium.”

He considers that, expression unreadable. “A reasonable position. If a narrow one.”

You raise an eyebrow at that. “I’m not sure being selective with my time is narrow.”

“Selective,” he echoes mildly. “Or avoidant?”

You exhale through your nose. “I just don’t see the value in wasting my time on something I don't care about in a symposium I don’t want to attend.”

He tilts his head. “Cerces is one of the most rigorous thinkers in the field. Even those outside her discipline benefit from her lens.”

You squint at him, not bothering to mask the skepticism in your tone. “I thought you didn’t agree with her methods.”

There’s the briefest pause, the lightest shift in his expression. Then, without missing a beat:

“Disagreement doesn’t preclude respect.”

“Right,” you say flatly. “That’s what everyone says about their academic rivals.”

His mouth twitches at that—barely. “Have you been reading up on me?”

You blink, caught off guard by the shift in tone. His voice is playful—but there’s a glint of challenge there. You recover fast.

“No,” you say, a little too quickly. “One of her students brought it up. Just now. In passing.” You clear your throat, glance away, and add on awkwardly, “—Professor.”

He doesn’t comment. Just watches you with an amused glint in his eyes.

“You might change your mind,” he pauses, “I’d like you to read a few papers.” He says with a finality.

You cross your arms. “You’re suggesting I read Cerces?”

“I’m suggesting, you examine the argument before rejecting the premise.” He lets the words settle for a beat. “I will send you a couple. You can draw your own conclusions.”

There’s a pause. One breath. Two.

You hesitate. “Fine.”

“I’ll need your email.”

You rattle it off without looking at him, the syllables falling out in practiced order, a thin attempt at professionalism. He offers his phone without a word, calm and unreadable, and you take it before you can think twice.

You type—carefully, trying not to fumble—but your pulse stutters anyway.

When you hand it back, his fingers brush yours.

Barely. A blink. A breath.

But it jolts through you like static, immediate and stupidly vivid. You freeze, absurdly aware of how warm his hand is, how close his attention suddenly feels even though he’s barely moved.

It was nothing. Just skin.

But your brain short-circuits like it’s something else entirely, and now you’re hyper aware of everything—the silence, the distance between you, the way your stomach tightens for no logical reason whatsoever.

You don’t look at him. You refuse to look at him.

He takes the phone back, and his voice is quiet. “I’ll forward them tonight.”

You nod, hoping he doesn’t notice how tense your shoulders are. “Okay,” you say, and your voice comes out a little too soft.

You hate how your face feels warm.

“Thanks.”

He gives you a sharp nod, turning back already.

His eyes flick back to you once—just once—before he returns to the booth, slipping back into the conversation with Cerces like nothing ever happened.

You stay where you are, steadying your breath.

What the hell?

taglist: @starglitterz @kazumist @naraven @cozyunderworld @pinksaiyans @pearlm00n @your-sleeparalysisdem0n @francisnyx @qwnelisa @chessitune @leafythat @cursedneuvillette @hanakokunzz @nellqzz @ladymothbeth @chokifandom @yourfavouritecitizen @sugarlol12345 @aspiring-bookworm @kad0o @yourfavoritefreakyhan @mavuika-marquez @fellow-anime-weeb927 @beateater @bothsacredanddust @acrylicxu @average-scara-fan @pinkytoxichearts @amorismujica @sandwichkun

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#❅ — works !#honkai star rail #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x gn reader #hsr x reader #anaxa x reader #hsr anaxa #hsr anaxagoras #anaxagoras x reader #hi hi if i missed adding anyone on the taglist i am so sorry i js realised i forgot to add one of u on the prev update :") augh im so.

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artfulacrostic · 3 days ago

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some people: daredevil born again doesn't include enough of matt's inherent catholic guilt and angst and how his faith drives him at the same time as it breaks him down bc he's a walking paradox

cue matt feeling literally textually unworthy to even enter the house of god, matt sitting in the courthouse on a bench like a pew praying just as hard as he ever could in a church that he will be able to save hector, matt telling fisk he believes in both mercy and wrath, matt praying the litany of st. yves and kissing foggy's funeral card like it's a saint card instead, matt redeeming himself by saving his mortal enemy at the cost of himself to a soundtrack of a remix of the florida mass choir titled "redemption", matt CONFESSING HIS SINS to karen knee to knee right after a flashback to his childhood where he was standing under a devil/angel window that shows he may be the devil of hell's kitchen but he HAS to be morally and fundamentally on the side of the angels and she tells him he's both wrath and mercy...amen

#daredevil born again spoilers #daredevil spoilers #daredevil #daredevil born again #matt murdock #matt murdock's catholic chicanery #love him sm #you guys just don't get him the way i and my own catholic guilt do ig #for legal reasons that is a joke i refuse to gatekeep even my faves but yeah #media literacy can't be dead while there is but one warrior who still fights for it etc etc #idk how i feel about the finale as a finale bc there was a lot i did like but i HATE how anticlimactic it felt #hoping s2 will be on the level with the best eps of this season and they will do it justice #did enjoy it overall tho #matt murdock they could never make me hate you #except when they characterize you badly in some comics etc but that's not ur fault baby #r speaks #r tags

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maxknightley · 2 days ago

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What's your process for coming up with character concepts and powersets for eidolon? I've been putting together one myself after absolutely adoring poprock and especially Harvey and it seems like you'd have an interesting perspective on it

I usually start by choosing a well-established archetype, or an existing character who I like, to model the character on.

Once that archetype is established, I think about a suitable eidolon name and concept for them.

Having established the broad strokes of the eidolon and the wielder, I work to create a fresh spin on the concept. Over the course of the campaign, I differentiate them further over time.

Some examples, keeping in mind that my memory of the older ones isn't going to be 100% accurate.

Harvey D. Godlove (ROCK)

Okay, ROCK is going to be the campaign that leans more Jojo and less Persona. The Virtuoso playbook seems interesting... Hol Horse and Mista are both basically Virtuosos. I'll draw on that - make a ranged attacker who's kind of a dumbass.

Just making the Eidolon "a gun" would be kind of boring, though. I'd like to use an OK Go song for this... hey, I was on a pinball kick recently. What if I made him really into pinball - so that's the skill he mastered - and that means he can fire a pinball like a bullet, and control its movements to some extent like Sex Pistols? Call that shit "Here It Goes Again."

Okay, so he's really into pinball, maybe other arcade games too. Since he's a Virtuoso, he must also be really good at it. Maybe he's got a bit of an ego? Sees the whole "career criminal" thing as a side gig? If he's flashy, that lines up with a high ELE build.

Emilia del Valle (Against!)

You know who's sick as hell. Nico Robin from One Piece. But I wish they had leaned harder into the fact that she's, like, one of the oldest members of the crew and spent time as a hardened assassin. I like it when she's silly but the Context should be there. What if I played someone who's a bit older and worn down by life? A Veteran, but what would their sub-playbook be?

Looking through Against Me songs, there's a few good options. Maybe Cavalier Eternal, maybe Dead Rats... an Alchemist would be fun this time around. Something kind of edgy, to fit the vibe she's got going on. "My eidolon turns love into hate?" "Turns comfort into pain?" No, those are too abstract. I should think of something concrete, something piratey and One Piece-y... say, "Violence" would be a fun pick. Very straightforward. Maybe she can just summon a fuckton of cannons? And if she's an Alchemist, the most efficient material to use would be wood - she can turn a ship itself into a new weapon!

Okay, so she's a bit older than the others. Since she's a Veteran, maybe she was a big deal at one point, but got captured and nearly killed. It's cool when characters have monikers. Since her attacks are technically using plant matter, maybe I'll call her something like "The Wilted Rose" or "The Wilted Lily..."

Solo (SKA)

It's the Mystery Solving Teens season! Gotta have a Beast in there to be the Scooby (or the Goober if you're nasty). We're doing a "two generations" thing, too... maybe go for a Mystery Incorporated inspired vibe, where my character is a bridge between both shows, and has mysterious motives of their own...

If I'm making my character "the bridge" then I should look into some real early ska, something from the 70s or early 80s. That also means we'll get some more variety on the Playlist. Let's see, "The Untouchables" sound cool. What do they - oh my god. Oh my fucking god lol I know exactly what to do here.

"Soul Together" = "Clump Spirit" = Katamari. My guy is a little fucking scarab beetle but instead of a ball of dung he could roll a ball of Everything. Like it's a miniature black hole basically. And I'll double down on the "prince" thing - his motivations are tied up in the politics and faith of a whole little civilization of bug people. What if they lived in a terrarium in the science classroom lol

The only major exception I can think of is Flip, and that's only because I came up with a rough concept long before Luke and Molly had actually figured out the details of the setting or started on the new rulebooks. Even then it still followed the broad strokes of "pick some existing characters I like, draw inspiration from them, and then tweak/iterate until they have their own thing going on."

#ask #anon #eidolon playtest

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atsadi-shenanigans · 3 days ago

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FSBE 24 - How to Make Friends

You report for duty.

On AO3.

More guards eyeball y’all as you trek up them stairs. You try not to read too much into it.

Swell’s meeting with another prayer group outside another set of double doors. The brainworms is all reaching out for each other here, and you’re more aware of your group than you ever been: the nerves; the cool, grim determination; the “everything smells like blood, gods, is it in the walls?”

You do your best to sink down, down into yourself. Into that quiet pool of nothing you always used to reach for. You used to think it was the lord’s mercy, his grace. His love.

You later learned it was probably a form of dissociation.

Oh, the miracles of modern medicine.

“True Soul,” Swell says when she clocks y’all. She waves a hand to dismiss the prayer group—one of them’s an ogress and an image of that fuck barn flashes in your memory and you feel Shadowheart and Gale wince. Oops.

“You dealt with the goblins quickly,” Swell says. “Not too quickly, I hope.”

Cause she’s a crazy bi—

The love of the lord. His guiding hand. All you need to do is trust it and obey.

“Show me,” Swell says.

Her brainworm grabs yours. Like the throne room, it tries to whammy you. Not a tree trunk in a storm, this time, but a storm surge. A wave of her rolling you, sinking into every crack and crevasse of your mind.

The others instinctively shield themselves, and you do your best. But she’s in there. Finding cracked riverbeds of long-abandoned tributaries. Surging through the dried-out canals of devotion, of fear and longing.

“Don’t spare me the details,” Swell says. “Let me taste how they suffered.”

Her eagerness is your own. Excitement at the prospect of pain.

Judith Engel on the stump. Mother praising you. Others, over the years when they didn’t get you on that stump first. More in your younger days before they was able to label you a (virgin) harlot. A dirty indian with primitive blood given to earthly lust.

But them times—Judith, Sarah, Rebecca, the once. When you stood victorious and glowing with righteousness.

You gasp the exact moment she hears your memory, Release them.

“You…let them go,” Swell says, something low in her voice. “Why.”

She’s harsher, this time. Claws her way through your memory. She’s searching for…for faith. For worship. And though it sickens you—literally; your stomach clenches and you swallow down a gag—you do your best to turn back time. Force yourself into childhood. Teenhood. When the lord worked through you. When you was his hands and breath and beating heart. One of his chosen, his emissary. Had only to obey and serve the lord through the Pastor , and you would be seated at his right hand while the rest of the sin-addled world burned. How you ached for that.

Can’t think about what your group is picking up on, there. Gale’s trickle of surprise and Shadowheart’s curiosity and Astarion…

“Living hands can serve,” you say. “If only as front-line fodder.”

Even you, imperfect sinner that you are, could be a vessel for the lord (or a husband) to fill. To bear children he might add to his holy army.

(you hate it hate it hate it).

Swell releases you. You do stagger, this time. Like one of them state fair rides that spin you around and around, the centrifugal force presses you so firm to the side that the panels slide up and you can barely lift an arm against it. Only for the ride to just stop and drop you onto alien feet.

“Hmm,” Swell says. “I suppose that’s practical. If far less satisfying.”

Fucking psycho.

But then two of your party fucking agree with her and these fucking people. This fucking world.

Steady, Gale thinks at you as offense roils and slops through all of you.

“The general has a task for you,” Swell says. Hoo boy, is she looking at you with scorn. Not even concealed. That shit’s right out there in the open. “There is a relic the General requires. He sent his most trusted adviser, Disciple Balthazar, to retrieve it. You should locate him underneath the Thorm mausoleum.”

Faint excitement stirs through your psychic group chat. A lead. A possibility. Oh, another crypt, how dull.

“We’ve lost contact with Balthazar, however. You are to find him and render any aid he may need. Return the relic, at all costs.”

She natters off some vague directions, something about the General’s will and a reward and faith in the Absolute. Seems bored. You can damn near taste it. Utterly disappointed with you.

“We’ll get to it,” you say.

She nods. You start to pass her, but then she says, “Did you know the Absolute grants gifts to her faithful?”

You turn. Debate lying, but that’s probably a stupid risk just now. “Oh, huh?”

“Mmm. Once you are brought into her presence, and filled with her love. She granted me the power to bring another to ecstasy.”

A sensation like a warm waterfall fills you: fluttering. Arousing. You can’t help but think of Astarion, just for a moment before crunching that down (but not before the bastard catches a slice of it and he deliberately sends a warm curl of his own into your mind).

“That’s, uh,” you say. Clear your throat. Try to ignore how hot your cheeks are. “That’s a real doozy.”

“It is,” Swell says. Looks to Astarion. Smiles.

There’s something very wrong with that smile.

“I can also use it to cut the string of life,” she says. “For those who fail our cause.”

It rushes you. Rushes past you like a freight train, passing so close the wind of it knocks you back.

Not aimed at you. Aimed behind you. Fixed at—

Astarion makes a single, strangled noise. Then pressure slams into all y’all. Horrible. Throbbing. It squeezes your brain, your lungs, your fucking blood vessels.

You make an aborted scream before your teeth clamp down—biting through the top of your tongue—and you fall to your knees—

Hold! Gale in your head. A sparkling presence, like spiced tea on a cold night. He sorta grabs you, reels you back. And you realize it’s not your pain choking you, but…but…

Astarion on the ground. Hands clawing at his head as his legs thrash. Gale and Shadowheart have to leap back to avoid the kicking. His eyes bug out. No sense in them, no thought, just animal pain, desperation, please no please master not again I’ll be good—

Steady. Gale fills your mind. Seems to reach through you to lock your knees and keep you upright.

The pressure grows. Crushing, but from the inside. God, he’s bleeding. He’s bleeding from everywhere. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth. Under his fingernails. Under his skin.

Steady. Don’t let her see you falter.

No. Please, please no. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

Another cool presence joins Gale. Throws itself over you, a heavy blanket. The world around you dims.

Astarion writhes. Flails. Leaks blood.

His master likes him to scream. He’d thought that as the fish people hurt him, when he thought it was…

He’s dying. Oh god, he’s dying.

The dark lady of loss can take away all pain and sorrow you must accept her nothingness, her merciful darkness.

Steady. That’s it. Keep breathing. Gale all but mentally holds you up.

Swell grins. Her eyes are bright. Manic. Her glee throbs through the connection as Astarion’s terror finally breaks loose. He’s dying. He knows it. Can’t stop it. Not again, please not again.

A final squeeze. Swell makes a fist with one hand. Everything in Astarion breaks all at once. The presence of him in your mind winks out. All of him just…gone. Leaving nothing.

We can revive him. Keep yourself calm.

Swell inhales like she just fucking came. Looks to you with a twinkle in her eye. “You seemed to be getting distracted, True Soul. Best focus on your duty, done properly, wouldn’t you say?”

Astarion isn’t here. His mind isn’t here. His body is a mess of tangled limbs and blood on the floor. Not moving. Not breathing. No quips, no snark, no teasing. Just…gone. You reach out, and no one answers. Because he’s not going to answer. Because he’s gone.

“Good hunting, True Soul,” Swell says. Gives you a jaunty fucking salute. And leaves.

You stand there. You do nothing. Say nothing. Everything in you locks tight. You don’t even feel. You can’t.

Astarion lies dead on the floor. Really dead. You felt him die.

And you stand there, locked down inside yourself.

#fsbe #these two shitheads #act 2 is a horror show #astarion #tavstarion #when i said act 2 was gonna get bad...#this one's rough #the next few are rough #hang in there #bg3 #bg3 fanfic

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storiesconsumemysoul · 3 hours ago

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Look I'm still processing my own feelings around the Siuan Sanche decision and execution but I gotta get this out of my system real quick. Firstly, some of y'all are way too comfortable swatting down, mocking, and condescending to fans (BIPOC fans in particular) who are upset. I'd recommend reigning that shit in. You can disagree and push back without resorting to all of that. Many such examples abound already within this discussion itself. Maybe try to emulate that approach instead of just bulldozing through an emotionally and politically charged discourse for minority fans.

Secondly, try engaging with this backlash with the larger context of the show in mind. Or even just S3. Look at how many characters (with speaking roles) died this season and how many of them were black. Think about the unnecessary death of Child Valda (Eamon Valda) this early in the series. The actor, Abdul Salis, devoured his introduction scene (and every scene since) so goddamn thoroughly that he instantly made the White Cloaks a terrifying presence that has resonated throughout the rest of the show. This brilliance gets rewarded with an anticlimactic quick death, with no buildup, by the hands of characters we haven't had the time to get to know properly, and who didn't even share a single scene with him prior. Right when Perrin, who does have a real established connection with him, is set up to spend a whole lot of time with the White Cloaks. Why not keep him for longer, doing what he does best, so that when the girls kill him down the line we'd have spent enough time building up to their confrontation to make for a proper earned send off worthy of such a towering talent?

And Ryma, played magnificently by Nyokabi Gethaiga, who absolutely electrifies from the get-go and through (2x6) in particular (along with her warder Basan played by Bentley Kalu). Ryma whose scream and anguished face as she is being collared by the Seanchan has haunted us for the last two years. Who left such an impression of her kindness, her strength, her faith in her sisters, her bottomless love for her warder, and with so little on-screen time. Gets one singular scene this season. With no acknowledgment, explanation, or addressing of any part of her role last season. How was she freed? When? Why was she not part of the effort to uncover Black Ajah in the tower when we saw her so deeply pained and shaken even by just the realization that one of her sisters could betray their sisterhood? She was written into such an afterthought background character this season that so many audience members seem to have straight up not even recognized her as the same character from S2, as Ryma, at all.

And Ihvon, originally played by Emmanuel Imani and recast this season to be played by Anthony Kaye, who dies in ep.(1) and, to the show's credit, haunts Alanna and Maksim's storyline so strongly that we feel his presence throughout the season. But we see none of that reflected in the tower. With Stepin (Peter Franzén) in S1, we get such a beautiful display of the warder's brotherhood, cultural ties to each other, and most importantly, how deeply loved Stepin was by his fellow warders. S1 makes us feel the loss of him reverberate through them all so devastatingly. Where is that grief for Ihvon? Where is his community? We spend so much time in the tower immediately in the aftermath of his death, and yet there is no one to mourn or honor him in the absence of Alanna and Maksim? We couldn't have had some of our characters pass by or even just hear about the other warders holding a funeral for him? Or just remembering him in some way?

I could go on for a good while still honestly. And sure, we could make legitimate arguments and have readings that justify these choices individually. But regardless, what this shows in aggregate, is a pattern of clumsiness in handling dark-skinned black characters/actors in particular. While at the same time, playing around with extremely politically, historically, and emotionally charged images of black bodies. Be it Ryma being collared and never addressing it again, Child Valda's whole thing, etc. etc. ... and now Siuan Sanche bruised black and blue, bloody, stripped to her shifts, bodily dragged across the hall, and decapitated. These are incredibly powerful and visceral images.

And no, before someone tries to make this point, I am not saying you can't graphically kill, write off, or deprioritize black characters/actors for perfectly legitimate artistic or practical reasons under any circumstances. I am saying that those choices don't exist in a vacuum. The context of the text at large and the real world are inevitably going to be part of how those decisions are received. It's not enough to have good faith diverse casting. And it is not unreasonable to expect a continued treatment of care and thoughtfulness past the casting stage and into every other facet of their presence and exit from the story.

#look I don't doubt that the creative team behind this show actualy have their hearts and intentions in the right place where treatment of #minority actors and storylines are concerned #sincerely #but that doesn't mean that minority fans don't get to push back and discourse loudly and messily about #where they are potentially succeeding or failing and everything in between without being belittled and insulted by the wider fandom #siuan sanche #child valda #eamon valda #ryma sedai #basan #ihvon #wot on prime #wot show spoilers #3x8 #wot s3 spoilers #the wheel of time #wheel of time #wheel of time on prime

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elliespuns · 3 days ago

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Joel lying in bed waiting for you to join him as you get ready for bed, then he notices something on your bedside table... it's small and it's plugged in, charging. A vibrator, a new one, one he's never seen before. So he picks it up and turns it on, touching the palm of his hand with it. And as you come into the bedroom you throw him a teasing "oh, should I give you two a moment?" and he's like "have you two already had a moment today?". And Joel proceeds to ask you to tell him about your moment while he gently pulls you onto his lap and starts kissing your neck... Needless to say the three of you have quite a moment that night.

There's something incredibly alluring about men, like Joel Miller, who possess total confidence and security. They feel comfortable enough to allow their partner to explore her own pleasure, even when they aren't involved. This speaks to their self-assurance and lack of jealousy.

Many men may view sex toys as a threat, assuming they are meant to replace them in some way. This insecurity often stems from their own performance anxiety or doubts about the relationship as a whole.

But Joel is a cut above. He has complete faith in his abilities as a man and in the strength of his connection with his woman. As a result, he's more than happy to let her indulge in whatever brings her enjoyment. And if she invites him to join in on the fun? That's just the cherry on top.

Joel embodies the ideal of a truly secure and supportive partner. His confidence and trust in his relationship gives his woman the freedom to embrace her desires without worrying about hurting his ego. That kind of unshakable self-assurance is deeply sexy.

#joel miller #joel tlou #elliespuns answers

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obscuraimagines · 2 days ago

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girl ty for writing a kodiak fic, ur a godsend frr🙏🙏 can you write one where they go through with the plan of hiking to the rescue point and at night kodiak and reader have to share a tent, also pls include choking if you can

A/N: Thank you so much for this prompt, Anon! I wanted to write a continuation and I had a lot of fun figuring out how to make this work: I hope you like it!

Trust Me

Summary: Follow up to Bite Me. Kodiak and the Reader have some unfinished business to resolve.

Content: Intended for 18+ readers. Smut, breathplay, dubcon, age difference (Reader is over 18.) Mature content under the cut.

Back when you still dreamed of rescue, before winter, you never imagined it like this. You imagined stepping onto the sun warmed asphalt of a runway, all your families waiting for you. At first you imagined other things too – a passing plane noticing smoke from your fire, a search and rescue team just over the next ridge – until you realised just how bad your odds were. Thinking about the logistics of it became too depressing but kept turning the image of home over and over in your mind, until it was worn smooth from handling.

Now, scrambling up a rocky slope with a handful of your teammates, questioning whether every bird call is really a bird or the friends you abandoned hunting you, you realise how wrong you were. Rescue isn’t something that’s going to happen to you. It’s something you have to claw your way towards: you’re so physically drained you can barely walk straight; you’ve betrayed more of your teammates that you’ve saved; you have no doubt the others will hunt you for it. But it could be worse: you could have been one of the ones left behind.

Kodiak, the reason you’re here, pauses on top of the ridge and turns to survey the rest of your group, straggling behind him. They know you were the one to offer him a deal: his freedom in exchange for all of yours. They don’t know how you persuaded him to put his neck on the line for you. It’s not that you think they’d judge you: you’ve all done far, far worse to survive. But you’re not so sure they’ll trust him if they find out he has an ulterior motive. You don’t want for that particular secret to come out when they’re all twitchy, paranoid and clutching whatever weapons they managed to grab. You try not to take it as a bad sign that Hannah refused to come. You can't exactly fault her for not trusting you but it worries you that she had so little faith in Kodiak.

You manage to stagger over the ridge. The hill falls away on the other side into a bowl shaped scoop, too small to be a real valley. The soles of your shoes are worn dangerously smooth: you cut ridges into them with a knife twice already over the past fifteen months; now they’re so thin you can feel each individual pebble through them and there’s no more left to cut. You slip, almost falling down the rocky incline.

Kodiak catches you. It frightens you a little, how strong he is. You’ve spent over a year in a society made up almost entirely of girls. You’re not used to the space an adult man takes up. His sheer physical presence is overwhelming.

Even though you’re dreading the others finding out, you still hope he might say something to you, let you know where you stand. Instead, he sets you on your feet and looks back irritated at the others. His hands linger on your arms, making sure you’re steady, but that’s it. You tell yourself it’s ridiculous to feel disappointed but you do anyway.

“We’re losing light,” he tells your group, not addressing you at all. “We can camp down the slope here.”

Camp in an optimistic word for it: you were only able to grab a few things that wouldn't be missed, plus tearing apart the researchers’ campsite for anything the others hadn't got around to bringing back. You have three tarps, less blankets than people, a single scavenged sleeping bag, and very little food. Kodiak finds a couple of low hanging branches to hang your scavenged tarps over and pin the third over a low hanging rock, securing the edges with rocks. Your makeshift shelters are cramped and drafty, but it'll at least keep the weather off you.

Kodiak insists there’s no way the others could keep up with you but when your fellow escapees insist on keeping watch, he volunteers to take the first. He’s the only one of you who doesn’t look about to collapse: you’re all in better shape than you were last winter but life out here has still taken its toll on all of you. None of you want to risk a fire, so the others fall into exhausted, aching piles under whichever shelter's closest, sharing stolen blankets, not caring who they lie down next to.

When you go to fall in beside them, Kodiak wraps a hand around your elbow, pulls you back. “You're with me.”

You wish you’d had chance to talk to him privately about what happened between you. Between the frenzy of planning and then nearly a full day and night of hard hiking, you haven't exactly had a chance to be alone. Now you have a chance, you’re afraid of what he might say.

“Get some sleep,” he tells you, holding the tarp away from the rocky overhang so you can slip inside. There’s not much room but then you won’t need much: you’re going to have to share body heat anyway. He's managed to snag the only sleeping bag and you stumble into the shelter, grateful to have something between you and the ground.

You know you should probably sleep in your clothes in case you need to run in the night. Except the air smells like it might snow later and your jeans are damp to the knee from pushing through wet undergrowth. You’re not sure if it’s cold enough to get hypothermia yet but you don’t want to test it. You kick off your shoes, shimmy out of your jeans, and then dig in your pack to swap your shirt and bra for a dark green shirt you raided from the researchers camp that you think is probably Kodiak's. Your last thought, as you slip into the sleeping bag, is that it smells like him.

You wake to the rustle of the tarp being pushed aside. At first you think it’s morning but the light is silvery: through the opening in the tarp you can see the moon, just past full. You peer out groggily and see another figure pacing around the clearing, blowing on her cupped hands for warmth. Mari.

Kodiak kicks off his boots and shoulders off his jacket before unzipping the sleeping bag just enough to let him slip inside. You shift to make room for him, so used to huddling for warmth by now that you forget to be awkward.

Kodiak wraps an arm around your waist, pulling your back against his chest. You can feel his breath warm on your shoulder and you press into him, grateful for the body heat. His thumb traces lazy circles on your stomach, then stops. “Is this my shirt?”

“I didn't think you'd mind–”

Your concept of personal property has kind of eroded while you've been out here. You all just share, reaching for whatever's nearest. Kodiak's so comfortable out here you forget he's not like you.

“I didn’t say I minded.” Kodiak’s voice turns low and husky against your ear. He hooks a finger into the neckline, baring your shoulder for him to kiss. Then he slides a hand down your ribs, ghosting over your bare thigh, tracing the edge of your underwear with a fingertip.

You bat his hand away.

“Mari will hear us.”

“Who cares? She’s eaten human flesh. You really think this is going to be the thing that traumatises her?”

You wish he wouldn’t just come out and say it like that but you don’t defend yourself.

“She'll wake up the whole camp. You really want to have that conversation with them right now?” You’ve seen how quickly things can unravel when tensions are running high. Nat’s as close to snapping as you’ve ever seen her. Rescue’s been snatched away once when Lottie killed the other researcher, then again when Shauna refused to let you leave. She’s pushed herself twice as hard as the rest of you, always on guard, expecting threats from every direction.

Kodiak glances around the edge of the tarp to see Mari, leaning heavily against a tree. Moonlight outlines the barrel of the rifle at her side. He huffs quietly in annoyance but lies still, pulling you close.

“Remind me why you had to bring your friends?”

You pretend not to hear him because you don’t have an answer he’ll like. The truth is, it’s the bargain you’ve made with yourself: if you can get a handful of them out, maybe you’ll be able to live with the ones you left to die.

You struggle to get back to sleep after that. You’re not sure what the rules are between you and Kodiak, which is a dangerous thing not to know when you’re fairly sure your life (all your lives) depend on following them. You have no idea what he’s going to expect from you, before you reach the rescue point. Assuming he’s not bored of you by then. You have a feeling it would be dangerous to bore him. You drift in and out of an uneasy sleep, Kodiak’s arm slung over your waist like an anchor.

The next time you wake, it’s to a hand over your mouth in the darkness. You lash out on instinct, thrashing as your legs tangle in the sleeping bag. Then you remember where you are and who you’re with. You stop struggling and twist your neck so you can see his expression. Kodiak lets go of your mouth but you’re not sure whether it’s safe to speak.

“Turns out your friend’s a pisspoor guard,” he breathes against your ear. He twitches the tarp aside briefly, to reveal Mari in a slumped heap. If not for the rise and fall of her chest you might think she was dead. The trek has been hard on her: she’s not a hunter or a forager used to covering miles, and her knee has never been quite right since she dislocated it. You’re uncomfortably aware that you chose who to bring based on vulnerability as much as skill. You worry what’s going to happen when Kodiak realises that; you don’t doubt he’d leave anyone who slowed him down behind.

You go to get up, meaning to wake her. Kodiak splays a hand over your abdomen, anchoring you in place.

“Let her sleep.”

You frown at him. “We’ll be unprotected–”

“We’ll be fine. Like I tried telling you all: the others don’t know the way and trying to track us will slow them down. There’s no way they’re keeping pace with us.”

You really want to believe that’s true.

“Anyway,” Kodiak says, pressing a line of kisses along your shoulder and to the sensitive point behind your ear. “We have unfinished business.”

“The others–”

“Are tired enough to sleep through anything. We’ll be quiet.”

You feel a guilty twist of desire at his words. It’s not like you’re not attracted to him.

You try to twist to face him but there’s hardly any space between you. Kodiak holds you still, his chest solid against your back. The hand on your stomach trails downwards, sliding inside your underwear. You bite down on a gasp and Kodiak shushes you, silencing you with a free hand over your mouth.

“Okay?” he asks quietly against your ear. You’re surprised he’s asking: both of you know that your survival depends on him. Maybe he just wants to remind you that you started this: you’re complicit. You nod into his palm.

He’s more measured than the last time, more deliberate. You realise that he’s trying to make the next part more comfortable for you. His touch kindles something in you that you thought was long burned out. Right when your desire is about to crest, he pulls his hand away.

You grasp his wrist with both hands, trying to keep it there, making a muffled, needy whine into his palm.

“My turn,” he whispers into your neck. You spit muffled obscenities, making him chuckle.

You help him peel your underwear out of the way. He’s hard against you and you brace yourself for pain, worrying you can’t take him. He enters you slowly and you hiss: it’s less painful than you expected but it still stings. He murmurs encouragement, rubbing slow circles into your hip, letting you adjust.

“You don’t know what it does to me, you wearing my shirt,” he tells you. You feel the rasp of his beard on the sensitive flesh behind your ear, his breath stirring your hair. “Makes you look like you’re mine.”

Kodiak slides a hand under the shirt, palming your breast. You moan faintly in response. He takes it as encouragement to start moving, carefully at first. The discomfort turns to a pleasant burn. You roll your hips, matching your rhythm to his and he rewards you by increasing the pace.

His hand slides down from your jaw to curl around your throat. You tense, remembering when you attacked him, how quickly he’d overpowered you.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

The question confuses you. Of course you trust him: you’ve gambled your life – your friend’s lives – on his ability to get you home. You’re not sure if you trust him not to hurt you. But it’s too late to stop this thing between you.

“I trust you.”

He guides one of your hands to cover your mouth, then returns his to your throat. He doesn’t squeeze exactly, just curls his fingers round your neck with a gentle pressure, anchoring you in place. It’s just tight enough to make you breathless, your sensations heightened. It’s nothing like your encounter in the clearing: the need to be quiet means it has to be slow, even sensual. Your world shrinks to the two of you, the movement of your bodies, the tent filling with soft, breathy noises. Kodiak lets go of your throat when you come, his hand covering yours covering your mouth. His pace gets faster, rougher, until he comes too, burying his face in your neck to muffle the sound.

Neither of you talk after. He presses a kiss to your throat, winds a strand of your hair lazily through his fingers. You worry that one of your teammates might have heard something but all you can hear is normal night time noises: the rustling of the wind in the branches, the occasional night bird, a faint snore from one of the other tents. The tiredness hits you again but this time you feel boneless, pleasantly drowsy.

You’re almost asleep when he breaks the silence. You didn’t realise he was still awake.

“You did good today.”

“Yeah?” It’s faintly mortifying how much you want him to praise you.

“Yeah.” He sounds sleepy, relaxed. It’s the first time you’ve heard him like that which, considering the last few days, is probably fair. He traces lazy patterns across your skin with his fingertips

“What do you think our chances are?” you blurt. “Of getting there, I mean?”

“Hundred percent.” It’s reassuring, the way he doesn’t even pause to think.

“What if–” You were about to say what if the Wilderness won’t let us leave but you realise just in time how insane it sounds. There’s a lot of other what ifs: what if the others catch up to us, what if someone gets too hurt to keep up, what if there’s an early blizzard?

“Stick with me,” he tells you, his voice gravelly with sleep. “Whatever happens I am going to get the both of us off this mountain.”

You’re not sure what he means by that, how transactional this thing between you is. But it doesn’t matter: you’re getting yourself and the others back to civilisation, no matter what. If he’s the best way to do that then whatever he wants you’ll do it. Strangely, the thought calms you. You fall into a dark, dreamless sleep.

A/N: Thank you for reading, if you enjoyed it then please let me know. I enjoy writing these but knowing people want to read them is what gets them off my hard drive and onto Tumblr. Requests are open.

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